


The Pianist

by Trickkyy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, John Plays the Piano, M/M, Might change, Mild Smut, Other, POV John Watson, PTSD John, Period-Typical Homophobia, Piano, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Some Humor, Suicidal Thoughts, Violinist Sherlock, no rating yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trickkyy/pseuds/Trickkyy
Summary: Two months after WWI and its 1919, Captain John Watson is positioned back in London. Not being able to survive on his army pension alone, John is forced back into a side job he once did before the war.   Yet the demons that toy with his mind give him some trouble as he tries to go back to being the man he once was. Will the help from a friend and a certain violinist aid in his recovery? Or will he fall to the critics and the memories of the past that plague his mind.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Its been a while since I've written fanfiction and it has killed me inside. Fortunately, I was struck with this idea and had to type it out. I'm still trying to see whether it will be a short series or a continuous one. Its sort of a time piece but I will not be going history-accuracy overload on this one, so apologies in advance if something is wrong or out of place. This is just for fun.

    It was already 12pm and as the grandfather clock chimed it's tune in the clustered hallway of Johns flat, he sat motionless on his bed.  

    Two months. Two months positioned back in London and already his mind was racing back to the battlefront. The screams and cries of fellow soldiers and enemies ringing through his ears. The single metal bullet standing erect on his end table. He could taste it now; the metallic revolver caressing the roof of his mouth as he gently pulled the trigger and....BAM. He could end it. Right here and right now, Dr. John Hamish Watson; Captain in the 5th Northumberland fusiliers, dead by his own hand. 

    Three sturdy knocks on the front door jolted him from his thoughts. Running a hand through his slightly greying hair he grabbed his robe and wooden cane and dragged himself onward. Being only several steps from the door, a yellow leaflet lay faced down. Johns face scrunched up in both slight pain from his wounded arm and a light dusting of curiosity as he grabbed the paper and turned it around.

    The front of the page was intricately decorated with a vine border holding several musical notes within its foliage. On the top of the page read the local pubs name and an event so posh that caused John to roll his eyes. However, a quite bold and underlined price caught his eyes with great interest and as he stared at the darkened ink of the pen he knew right away what this was. This was yet another job opportunity.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think? (Yes I know its super duper short. Its just a peek). ;3  
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated and I will try to update at least once a week (providing I'm not overrun with homework). If I'm late, my apologies. <3 (and YES, chapters will be longer :P)


	2. Pain

   "Mike, I really don't know.."     

   "Nonsense, John! I told you when you came back from your outpost after the war finished that this would be the perfect opportunity to go back to the way life was before that blasted thing!"

   "Yes, but Mike I'm not that person anymore.."

   Mike stopped in his tracks out front of the local pub and turned on his heel to face John. "Well you need to stop bein' the person you are now and go back to the Watson you once were! The war is over now, John. It's bloody 1919. Wake up and smell the fresh air." The harshness in his voice made John stand up a little taller and narrow his eyes at his friend, "If I wanted to 'smell the fresh air' Mike," he hissed "I would have-" 

    "Moved to the bloomin' rock of New Zealand. I've heard that one all ready, Watson." He sighed and shook his head at the annoyed puff of air that steamed out of the doctors nose. "Anyway," Mike turned to face the bar entrance with an outstretched arm, "this is the venue. 7:00pm sharp, the piano will be set up when you get here. I hope you come out John, it would do you good." With a hopeful smile and a light pat to his friends arm, Mike adjusted the bowler hat on his head and headed down the street, not even bothering to look back. 

   John stood there for a while; taking in the surroundings and the building as he shifted his weight on his cane. The cold air tickled his ears and nipped at his face until it became increasingly uncomfortable, forcing him to return home. 

~

    Stepping into the cool, damp and rather small living room in his flat, John removed his jacket, dress shoes and took off his flat-cap and proceeded to the kitchen. He sighed as he filled the kettle up with water before placing it on the stove and prepping for a cup of tea. As the water bubbled and the whistle of steam cut through the silence of the room, john poured himself a cuppa and proceeded to the paltry sized sitting room. He sat down slowly, putting all the pressure of his weight on his right arm and resting the cane on the side table. 

   Reaching for this mornings paper made a groan escape from his mouth as he retracted his left arm from the reach and slumped down miserably. "Damn my arm!" He roared and threw his cup against the wall, causing droplets of tea to spray on his oil painted grand piano. His eyes widened at the sight and he rushed to his feet, causing him to lose balance and fall to the ground. His arm began to sting as his left leg locked up. Without even a second though, john crawled to the artwork, dragging his spent and worn body across the wooden flooring. He tried several times to force himself up; clawing and grasping at pieces of furniture as he tried to get to his feet. 

   The stinging in his arm strengthened as he yelped in pain and his eyes began to water. "Damn my leg! Damn my arm! Damn my bloody life!" He cried, giving up and crashing to the floor once again. 

    He felt betrayed. Betrayed as his body grew numb and his sobs could no longer be contained. He lay there on the dampened floor among broken shards of porcelain and several puddles of tea as his chest shook. 

~

   There was a light knock on the door, followed by several other ones when no response was given.  

   It had been several hours and John still lay on the cool ground, motionless with eyes rimmed in red. His mind toyed with him then, relaying words through his ears as his lips mouthed over them. 

  
_Useless_.

 

_Broken_. 

 

_Waste_.

 

_MURDERER._

 

    "I AM NOT A MURDERER!" He yelled and tried lifting himself up, settling his left arm as support before crying out in pain once again. 

    The sound must have worried the person outside of his door because in less than five minutes the knocking became quite erratic; as if somebody was bodychecking themselves against it. It took only three tries before the door bust down and the figure of Greg Lestrade loomed over him.

    "Jesus, John! What the bloody hell have you done?!" Hoisting his limp friend onto his shoulders, Greg guided John back to the loveseat. 

    "T-the painting. M-my painting.." he murmured, hands flexing uncontrollably. 

    Greg turned to the tea stained work of art. "That bloody thing you commissioned for? THAT, the reason you were laying like a dead-beat over there!" Greg shook his head and drilled his fingers into his temples, trying to process the actions of his friend. 

   "P-please.." he sniffed, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

   Greg sighed and went to the kitchen, throwing his coat and dress jacket onto one of the kitchen chairs and rolled up his sleeves. He grabbed a white dishcloth and walked back to living room, gently dabbing at the droplets of tea running down the canvas. 

   "You had an event tonight. Mike told me to come and get you. You know, so you couldn't make up another excuses about not having a lift to get there and such." 

   John sat in silence, staring at the artwork as Greg blotted away the moisture.  "It's in two hours John. For Christ sake you need to get cleaned up." 

   "I-I can't do it." He mumbled, taking a deep breath as he tried to slow down his over-beating heart.

   "Well you need to do it, John." He sighed, lowering his tone, "I know this has been difficult for you. Coming back from that mess and such, but rents not gunna' pay itself." 

   When he blotted as much of the tea as he could, Greg balled up the towel and threw it to the end table beside john. "There was something on your door. Must've missed it when you came it." He walked to his coat, reaching into the inside pocket and pulling out a folded letter. He unfolded it and set it in Johns lap before walking to the window and opening up the curtains.  

   He could tell just by the red ink on the sheet that it was a rent notice form. He had already missed out two payments this month and the landlord was growing short. 

   "An eviction notice." Greg stated, voice cutting through the blinding silence. 

   "Oh well.." John sighed.

   "No! Not "oh well". You are going to this gig tonight, and you are going to perform. You need this money, Watson!" 

     He was beat. John knew he was right. Of course he was, living in London was his dream; and if he wanted to continue and try to make a decent enough man of himself, he would have to make this work. _TRY_ to make this work.

    His life was depending on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated! <3
> 
> This is a slow chapter I know, the next ones to come will not be so 'boring' I can promise that. :D


	3. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy weekend! And to those of you celebrating thanksgiving this month, Happy Thanksgiving!

   Carefully shifting his left arm to comfortably run it through his evening dinner jacket came with some difficulty. He finally managed without ruining his patchwork on the bandages securing his shoulder through his white dress shirt, and went to the restroom. John carefully fixed his hair, gelling it back and to the side, and carefully shaved the rough stubble from his chin, upper lip and jawline. He took a moment to look straight into his own eyes through the small mirror. "You can do this.." he caught himself saying out loud. Securing the top button of the dress shirt and running his hands down the front of the jacket, picking at little fluffs, John hobbled with his cane to the front door where Lestrade stood waiting.  

   "Ready?" Greg called out, eyebrows slightly knitted and a very small and warm smile on his face.  

   John nodded with some confidence as he reached over to the coatrack, grabbing his only top hat. "Ready."

~

   John was quite astounded as he rocked his way through the pub doors, trying not to knock into anyone. The first thing he noticed was the large amount of people, all crammed into one space. His breathing picked up along with his heartbeat as he scanned the room, searching for the stage - and hopefully a back room of some kind. 

   The pub itself was not very large; appearing quite smaller as rows of tables were scattered across its wooden floor. Looking around, in an attempt to calm his breathing, he was quite shocked about how done up the place was. Usually the pub's he went to were older, quieter and a lot messier; consisting of crowds of sloppy, slurring men and - if he was lucky - several dust bunnies floating at the bottom of his pint. This one, however, was laced with poshy attire and had a warm atmosphere with a new style of music gracing its way in amongst the chatter.

   "My god, I knew you'd make it!" A warm hand clapped against John's shoulder and he jumped a bit at the contact. 

   Turning around a familiar smile and pair of glasses met his eyes. "Mike," he breathed, relieved at the sight of a friend amongst the strangers. John cleared his throat, attempting to regain some composure. 

   "Bloody hell, Watson you're drenched!" He commented, pointing at the sweat beading on his friends face. "If you weren't completely dry from the torso down, I'd say you ran the Sussex mail delivery." Mike chuckled and reached his hand out for a shake. John grinned at the comment, silently thanking his friend for the distraction as he complied and returned the welcomed gesture. 

   "Just in time and only one act before you. They have a very quaint back room if you want to take a dab at your face." Mike let out a breathy chuckle as he leaned a little closer to John's ear, "even have some whiskey, I've been told." 

   "God knows I need it." John countered back with a smile and followed his comrade through the crowd of tables and into the low lit room. 

   "I'm going to go grab a seat in the back. Hollar if you need anything." Mike turned on his heel and stopped at the door, hand grasping the handle as he turned his head. "And John," he called back "good luck, mate." 

   As the door closed behind him, John reached for the bottle of whiskey and crystal glass with shaky hands.

_Just one._  

~

   "John Watson!" The mic echoed and the sounds of claps rang throughout the room. 

   Claps turned to thunder and a drop of water hit the tip of his nose. John's eyes blinked rapidly at the contact and his eyes whipped around the room. To his fearful eyes, the room began to blur and the familiar atmosphere of the war trenches engulfed his vision. 

_No. No. No._  

_Not again..._

    John closed his eyes as he attempted to focus his breathing. In the distance the sounds of gunshots and grenades being set off invading his ears. 

   "John, JOHN"

   His eyes shot open and was faced with that of an unfamiliar looking soldier. Almost instantly - as if programmed into his brain - John tried to stand as straight as he could and saluted. "I'm ready to head to the front to recover the bodies, sir!" 

   "Bodies?...Son, are you right of mind?" The man glared at his hand and his face twisted, "That whiskey could be the cause..." he continued and proceeded to take the roll of bandages from John's grasp.

_Whiskey?_

   "I need those!" 

   "I think you've had enough of that. You're up anyways." The man went behind John and began pushing him toward the stage. 

   John - still in the trenches - looked around at the bodies littering the muddy ground. Limbs blown off. Bullet wounds buried deep within skulls as a crimson liquid pooled down over their bloodshot eyes. His heart raced as it pounded in his ears and he gripped the rifle at his side harder. It was in that moment that a single flash of lightening caused him to squint; the sounds of cries and yelling of commands slipping their way into his mind. It was almost out of a nightmare as the bodies on the ground began animating to life, lifting their muddied and almost detached limbs to clap and groan in pain. 

   John's eyes widened. He lunged backward, bumping into the mud wall of the trench and yelled. Kneading his fists into his eyes, he sank down to the ground, whimpering; feeling as like a child. He shook in fear before a sturdy and warm hand placed itself on his shoulder. 

   "Sir. Sir!" A deep and calming voice broke through his thoughts and John sniffed and rubbed at his eyes before slowly lowering his hands and opening them. A bit of reality caught him as the venue morphed back before his eyes. The stage light caused him to squint as his eyes took time to readjust.

   "Are you alright?" The calming tone asked, and he looked over to its owner. A very pale man with dark raven curly hair and piercing greyish-blue eyes caught his attention and John swallowed hard in response. When he managed to take his eyes off of the entrancing figure, he began looking around the room. Several people were stood up from their chairs, hand to their mouths and murmmering amongst themselves.

   "I-I-"

   "John!" He turned his head to see Mike panting with hands on his knees as he breathlessly walked over and reached for John's hand, carefully lifting him to his feet. As he did so, the black haired man rose to his feet as well and pulled at his dinner jacket, ridding it of new wrinkles.

   "God, John are you alright?" Mike questioned, worry and apology written over his face. 

   "Fine.." John mouthed and balanced his weight on his right foot. "Cane." He continued and Mike scooped it up with haste, handing it to his owner.

   Readjusting himself he thanked Mike and then turned his head to look for the raven haired man; but he was gone. "Who was that?" John blinked with a frown. 

   "Who was who?" 

   "The man - the one who got to me first." 

   "Which man?" Mike asked with a raised brow. 

   "There was a-" he shook his head and breathed a sigh, "Never mind." 

   "Well, anyways, let's get you home, Watson." 

   John nodded and slowly hobbled behind his friend as they proceeded out the now deadly silent pub - John carefully scanning around the room of watching eyes for the man with no luck- and onto the cold streets of London.

   They walked in silence, John's eyes glued to the cobblestone pavement, until they reached his flat. Mike said his goodbyes and usual "if you need anything don't be afraid to call" spiel before he left and John staggered up the familiar stairs and straight to his bedroom. 

~

   After a hot bath and warm glass of brandy, John readied himself for bed before rapidly slipping into the dreamy abyss. His dream was quite uncommon - not like the usual war ones that woke him drenched and tangled in sheets - this dream, however, gave him the odd feelings of security and solitude. The raven haired man with the greyish-blue eyes came to him that night.

   It was the first decent sleep he's had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our 'Consulting Detective' will definitely be making another appearance in the next chapter :P 
> 
> (Will probably update either on: Wednesday, Thurday or Friday. So keep an eye out!)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <3


	4. The Violinist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Here's the next Chapter. (Finally some Sherlock action)

   John skipped out on breakfast that morning, deciding instead to go spend it at the arts studio several blocks down from his flat. 

   The studio itself was run by an older, widowed woman who took the business after her husbands demise and created a space where artists could go and practice their talents for a reasonable price. With John only being confined to the space his flat gave him - and the dwindling contents of his bank account - the thought of ever purchasing a luxury, like a piano, never crossed his mind. And so he resorted to 'renting one out' for a couple hours each week to practice his skill and clear his mind.

   The bell chimed above his head as he removed his flat-cap and smiled politely to the grinning woman behind the front counter. "Morning, Mrs. Hudson." 

   "Oh John, it's wonderful for you to show up this morning!" She clapped and went to go retrieve his coat. 

   "Thank you."

   "It's been so long since you've visited anyway, I was wondering if you went up and finally bought your own piano!" 

   "Oh no," he chuckled "heaven knows I can't afford one of those."  

   "How are you getting on?" She asked lightly.

   John shrugged, free hand flexing uncomfortably "As best as I can."

   "Well, do come in. Your usual room is all set up, I'll bring some tea and biscuits if you would like later." 

   "You are too kind, Mrs. Hudson. That would be lovely." He responded and proceeded to the back room, closing the door behind him. The room smelt a little musky and damp, as if it hadn't been used in several weeks. 

   John walked to the closed drape and slid them open, letting the warm rays of sun grace itself in the darkened and dusty room. Clearing his throat, he hobbled to the large sheet covering his true and hidden beauty. He cast the sheet away in one swift movement - dust particles raining around him.

   "Just as I left you.." he smiled softly and looked at the beautiful musical piece before him. The piano was a glistening beacon amongst all the dust, capturing some reflections from its polished surface and reflecting sunlight off its glossy black paint. John slowly sat on the accompanying stool and placed his cane beside him, stretching his arms and digits before gently placing his fingers on the cool keys. 

   He started playing a simple melody, one which he learned at a young age before he experimented and produced some of his own. 

   The calming atmosphere was cut short when he heard the familiar clicks of shoes climbing up the creaky wooden stairs of the studio. John rolled his eyes and lowered his head before he groaned. "The violinist..." several seconds later he was greeted with the screeching tune above him. 

_Why is it every time I come here, I'm stuck listening to this-this nonsense?!_  

   "Hoo, hoo" a voice from behind pulled him back to his senses and he pulled on a small grin as he turned to face Mrs. Hudson, tea and biscuits in hand. 

   "I brought you a little treat." 

   John chuckled and shifted in his seat to face her better, "You're lucky I'm a crippled and unemployed veteran, Mrs.Hudson, or I would have snatched you up." He joked.

   Her sincere laugh echoed in the small room as she placed the small tray on the side table. "Now, now Dr. Watson, I'm way too old to be wooed by a charming young man, such as yourself." 

   "Nonsense!" He laughed "you don't look a day above 40." 

   "And you better be careful that you don't whistle sweet words to every other woman you meet, or they'll be lining up Dorset asking to be your wife."

   Laughter erupted amongst them and the violin playing from above stopped abruptly. Stomping of footsteps marched across the upper floor, the opening of a door following soon after. "Mrs. Hudson!" A deep voice rang through the stairwell and into their room. "You and your 'guest's' obnoxious and unnecessary laughter is polluting the quiet atmosphere of this studio! If you would like to proceed with such pleasantries I suggest taking it to the streets!"   

   John's eyebrows furrowed at the somewhat familiar voice. He grabbed his cane and got up a little too fast, causing him to wince, and walked to the doorframe.

   "Your obtrusive complaining and mockery is unnecessary!" He called up, venom leaking into his tongue. "How about you and your, 'fiddle', take a trip outside if it bothers you so!" 

   "Fiddle?!" The voice from upstairs growing in anger. "Before stepping into a studio such as this, you might want to brush up on your knowledge of instruments! Or did the tea and cookies somehow clog your brain on their way to your stomach?"

   "I beg your pardon!" John called, his fingers turning abnormally white as he clenched the handle of his cane. 

   "Apology accepted!"  

   Just as John was going to retort and push back, the door from above slammed shut and the sound of the violin started up again. 

   "Unbelievable!" He breathed in exasperation and turned to the older woman with mouth slightly open and brows tight together. "How do you still allow an insufferable man like that into your studio?!" 

   She shook her head softly in response and dusted down her dress, "He's not normally like that, Dr. Watson. Just seems to be in a little tuff this morning is all." 

   "For as long as I've been going here he's been nothing but rude and-and insufferable!"

   "Have you even met him?" 

   "No! And I don't need to, nor do I even want to."

   Mrs. Hudson smiled at him and did a little shrug as she walked past him and through the door. "Live and let live." She sighed to herself with a smile.

   When the door closed behind her, John went toward the piano again. Plopping himself hard against the stool, he slammed his hand down on the keys. The tune was ear repulsing and spine shivering as he jammed his hands up and down the row, not even wanting to create a sweet tune. A sly grin captured his mouth as he heard the annoyed footsteps of his 'musically inclined  neighbour' stomp above him and down the wooden stairs, b-lining for his door. 

   It did strike John as odd though, when he really thought about it, how he never met that insufferable violin player from upstairs. Since joining the studio last month, never once did he run into the man or ask after him. Two complete strangers quite content with never acknowledging each other's existence.

_Until now - that it._

   His door burst open as he continued hitting the keys sloppily as a turn to revolt. "That's it! Yes! Play the piano like a ill-tempered child! Go on!" The man shouted and John's hands stopped, finger lingering on the final note as it drew out into silence. His other fist clenched and face grew hot before turning his head and-

   He froze. Eyes widening when they met the grey and blue spheres. "Y-you." He spoke, unable to really process anything in his mind.

   "What about me?" The raven haired man responded with an angry lift of his brow and folding of arms over his chest. 

   "Y-you were at the pub last night!" A confused narrowing of eyes forced him to continue, "I was the...the...." his mind raced. Tell the truth or lie? He didn't know this man, why would he pour out his problems. 

   "The drunk." He decided and his eyes shot to his feet.

   "Ah yes. I remember you."

   "I'm glad..." he mumbled in response.

   "Army veteran, served in the pointless war, just came back two months ago and living in a flat here, in downtown London."

    John's eyes shot back up and widened, the man looked him over and continued.

   "You're wounded in your leg possible gunshot wound with minor infection it seems, thus the cane." He pointed to the side of John. "I would say regular solider but you hands are still, very still. Worthy enough to carry around a weapon and scalpel. So I say war doctor. The way you talk and present yourself also has some merit, and form of command. But by the way you dress you're poverty stricken, resorting to any job you can find."

   Looking back into John's eyes he swore he saw the man flinch at the sight of him, mouth dropped open and eyes still wide. "How did you even know about my job-" 

   "Easy, your clothes. Hand-me-downs or bought at the secondhand shop. The little pull at the end of the cuff of your jacket, the remnants of an oil stain on your flat-cap. Tried to clean it off; soap and water only does so much." 

   "Fantastic!" 

   The words that came out from him caused the man to frown, brows knitted tightly together. "E-excuse me?" John could swear the mans voice softened. 

   "That...was brilliant." He stated.

   The curly haired man looked rather shocked as he stood completely still, eyes blinking rapidly several times with the same expression moulded on his face. 

   It felt like several hours of them just staring at each other before the man broke the silence, "You really-" his voice cracked a little before he cleared it and continued. "You really think so?..."  

   Flabbergasted by the response, John nodded and raised an eyebrow. "You seem shocked...why?" 

   The man turned his head away, avoiding eye contact, "No ones said anything like that before...about my observations that is."

   "What do people normally say after you spit out their lives in front of their faces?"

   "Bug off." Sherlock smirked.

   John laughed a that, catching a glimpse of a smile on the others face before rubbing at the back of his head; eyes wandering the room. 

   "So... I think I will go now. I completely forget why I came down here in the first pla-" 

   "John Watson." The boldness seeping through his own pores startled John. Why was his heart picking up speed now that this man was about to leave? Has the temperature risen? Maybe Mrs. Hudson should put a fan in here, this rooms never been this warm.

   The man eyed him once again, looking somewhat confused. John grabbed at his cane and slowly pushed toward him, stopping at a civil distance and reaching out his hand. "My name is J-John Watson." 

   The raven haired man's face softened as he accepted the gesture and shook his hand delicately. 

_Soft hands_. John thought to himself and mentally shook his head. _STOP, what is this? What's going on?_  

   "Sherlock Holmes." He replied and as they parted John felt a little empty feeling pry at his heart. 

   "It was nice to finally meet the 'fiddler' from upstairs." He grinned and saw one side of Sherlock's mouth turn up.

   "Violinist." He replied rather flatly. "Although a 'piano player' would not really know the difference, would they?" He chided.

   "Pianist." John shot back with a cocky grin and wink.

_Did I just wink at him?_  

   Sherlock snorted and placed both of his hands behind his back. "Biscuit?" John asked, hobbling over to the side table beside the grand piano and picked the plate up from the tray before carefully returning to his spot.  

   "I'm-" Sherlock started but stopped, mouth opening and closing several times as if planning how to respond. "T-thank you." He finally stated and grabbed one from the plate; delicately nibbling it to avoid mess. 

   "So how long have you been coming here?" John asked, putting all his weight on his good leg as he rested his cane against it and grabbed for a cookie, trying to mimic his guest's eating. 

   "Almost two years." 

   "Well you beat me." John joked.

   "You were in the war." Sherlock stated "Of course I've been here longer."

   "Why weren't you enlisted anyway? If you don't mind me asking."

   "My brother works within the government. And when I say 'in' I mean is." John chuckled which made Sherlock grin. "He made sure to keep me far away from any battleground. Something about, 'for the sake of our parents'." He responded, adding a sarcastic ring at the last statement. "Besides, why would I want to be part of a pointless war?" 

   "Well..." John tried to think of a reason, but he was stuck. "You're right. But not all war is."

   "Every war is, John. No matter what great titles and merit you try to place in front of it."

   John's heart sped up at the mention of his name coming from the mans lips.

_Those soft looking lips, and strong, deep voice..._

   He cleared his throat before nodding in agreement. The chime from the clock in the hall brought him back to his senses. 12:00pm. _Mike_. "Oh, damn!" John rushed to grab his hat and jacket after placing the plate of biscuits down on the tray and chugging down the now, cold tea. "I'm sorry for cutting this conversation short...Mr. Holmes, was it?"

   "Sherlock." 

   "S-Sherlock..." he breathed, and cleared his throat again. "B-but I have a job meeting to go to, and well, as they say 'time waits for no man'." 

   "Such is true." Sherlock responded and stepped outside into the hallway. "It was a pleasure to meet you Dr. Watson." 

   "You too." John followed behind and bowed his head at the man before putting on his hat and hobbling quickly to the front door of the studio.

   "Leaving already, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson called out from behind the main counter.

   "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you again for the biscuits and tea." As he turned the handle of the door and stepped out halfway, he turned his head to the tall man at the base of the staircase. "Will you be in tomorrow?" He asked; his confidence overwhelming him once again.

It seemed that his comment didn't effect only him, and he saw the man readjust himself and open his mouth slightly. "U-um, I- I believe so. Yes." 

   "I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Hol-...Sherlock." 

The tall man nodded with a thin smile and John winked at him before fully stepping out of the building and closing the door behind.

~

    He felt lighter, as if the clouds themselves offered their weightlessness to his wounded body. He grinned to himself; thoughts of his meeting and talk with the violinist from upstairs replaying in his head. 

He walked the cobblestone street with confidence until his full realization.

Mike's office was in the other direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <3


	5. Another Job Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Its that time of the week again....Update Wednesday's! Yaaaay.

   The employment agency was a smart looking building. Brickwork done with prestige craftsmanship and a decorated sign that hung above the door. As he walked through the door, he was greeted with the smiling face of the receptionist. "Hello, John." 

    "Afternoon, Molly." He grinned and went to place his cap and coat on the rack beside the door. 

    "You can go on in, Mike's waiting." 

   John's response was a nod and a smile as he walked through the hallway rowed with names on doors of agency workers. A little further down the hall, he stopped dead centre at the one which read 'Stamford: Agent' - knocking twice before entering.

    "Captain Watson. Or should I call you Doctor?" Mike turned in his chair away from the large window behind his desk.

    "Funny, Mike." John grinned, and hobbled to the empty seat and flexed his fingers once he sat down. 

   Before even mentioning what happened last night, Mike had already placed several sheets of papers in front of the veteran. "You get a couple to chose from." He stated, and went back to typing something on his typewriter.

    "Is it Christmas already?" John joked and flipped through the sheets, skimming their contents.

    "Shocking, isn't it? Since the crap that happened last night." 

   John's fists clenched at the memory and mentally shook his head. "You know that wasn't my fault.." he mumbled.

   When he looked up, Mike's eyes were written with concern and pity. "I never said it was. John," he took a breath, "There are people, you know. Who you can talk to." 

    "And look like some nutjob, Mike? Become the 'crazy' Watson. Is that what you think I want?" 

    "John I wasn't impl-"

    "Is that what you think I am, Mike?"

   Mike's hands shuffled on his desk as he avoided contact with the emotional man across from him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "No.." he rasped.

    "Oh. I see how it is then." John stood up and puffed out his chest, snatching up the papers before him and strode to the door, trying to build up any of the confidence from this mornings interlude. The pain in his leg throbbed annoyingly, but John pushed it to the other side of his brain.

    "Thank you Mike for your assistance, I will get back to you if I fancy anything. Good day." Without any response from his - now speechless - friend, he turned on his heel down the hallway once again. He grabbed his coat, furiously throwing it over him and plopping the cap on his head without care. Glancing over at Molly he noticed she remained silent, eyes wide with a timid look on her face and he bowed his head politely at her, leaving the office in a huff.

~

   Walking down Oxford Street, John's eyes wandered. He noticed several strangers glaring at him and whispering as he passed. It made him feel self-conscious and judged, mind reeling as it tried to decipher what in fact these people were - or could be - saying about him.

   These thoughts didn't last long, however, before his stomach growled in protest. John knew very well skipping out on breakfast wasn't the best idea, and now with it being lunch time, he couldn't afford missing another meal. He planned on going back to his flat but changed his mind and settled to eat out instead. 

   He wasn't very familiar with this part of London, mainly for the reasons of only coming down to visit Mike every once in a while. Oddly enough, he did remember a small cafe and deli just north of George St.

_Speedy's was it?_

_~_

   Walking into the small and quaint cafe, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and steeped tea filled his lungs. He was already eyeing all the different cuts of deli meats and reading the daily sandwich board when his stomach growled once again.

   Easily enough, John decided to go with a ham and swiss, accompanied by a fresh cup of black tea. He settled down at a table by the window, placing his cane beside him, and took out the crumpled employment sheets, laying them out in front. 

   A part-time clinic doctor in Saint Giles, another small medical position at St. Bart's hospital and lastly, a Friday night gig offer at Shampton's pub. Eyeing the latter, John couldn't complain about the money, it payed more than the small clinic offer, but fell a bit short of St. Bart's. Just the thought of another medical career had his insides twisted in knots. 

  Could he really do this? The whole doctor and caretaker deal again? After seeing the mass of disembodied and limbless soldiers that went through him almost every hour was overwhelming.

_Too much. Enough for a lifetime._

  His thoughts were broken as the empty chair across from him was pulled back and a curly haired musician sat down. "John."

    "Sherlock? What are you doing here?" He quickly grabbed the sheets of paper and tucked them back in his coat pocket.

    "I might say the same to you, but the half-eaten sandwich seems to be my answer."

   John chuckled and looked down at his plate, remembering that he in fact did have food still in front of him. "Easy observation then."

   Sherlock hummed in response before folding his hand on the table and edging forward a little in his chair. "May I ask what those papers were?"

   John coughed - choking on a sip of tea - and grabbed at his cloth serviette, wiping at his mouth. "Oh those, they are nothing. Just little incentives." 

    "Jobs." Sherlock said flatly.

   John reddened at the response and bowed his head a little. "Yes..."

    "And you're ashamed?"

    "Ashamed?" John voice rose a little before he noticed the look on his visitors face, and cleared his throat, lowering it again. "No I'm not 'ashamed'."

    "Embarrassed then." 

   John breathed from his nose in annoyance.

    "John, that's really nothing to be embarrassed about. What have you found? Hm? Let's see, now." Sherlock held out a hand, waiting for the papers.

  Defeated, John sighed and passed them over, returning to his sandwich and avoiding eye contact with the musician. Several flips and the flattening down sounds of sheets were the only thing John heard as he looked out the window. He turned when he felt the edge of a page touch the back of his hand.

   "This one seems reasonable."

   John wiped his hands with the serviette and grabbed for the sheet, turning it to see the scrawled out words in pen ink. He snorted.

   "It says ' _For Me_ '."

   Sherlock looked unaffected by the words and continued looking at him, hands steepled below his chin as his arms rested on the table.

   John's grin flattened and brows lowered in confusion. "What is this?"

   "A job offer." One side of the mans lips curving upward.

   "Funny. There's no pay amount or availability requirements anywhere in this page."

  An annoyed huff came from the musician as he plucked the paper from the doctors hand and scrawled with his pen on it, returning it to his fingers. "There."

  John chuckled and read it over aloud. "' _Full time musical assistant. Pay: to be decided upon whether the future employee accepts. Availability: 4-5 days weekly, 5-6 hours a day_.'" John's face formed 'impressed' as he snuck a glance at Sherlock, who in turn was eyeing him as well. He laughed at the page and gave the man an adoring look. "' _See employer if any questions arise. I look forward to working with you Dr. Watson_ ', how sweet." John could have sworn the mans ears blushed pink.

  He leaned back in his chair and placed the sheet down in front. "I would honestly consider your offer, Mr. Holmes. But as it seems - in about 42 hours-" rolling up his sleeve he checked his watch, "I will be evicted from my home, and out onto the streets. Any job retaining to that of the arts is not in my pay range." He took a final sip from his tea, " and anything dealing with medical is out of my considerations for now." He placed the cup down and reached for his cane, lifting himself from the chair carefully. "I bid you a good afternoon, Mr. Holmes" he bowed his head, fingers tipping the edge of his cap as he proceeded for the door.

  It wasn't until Sherlock was fully standing up from his chair that John noticed the hand wrapped around his own wrist, keeping him in place. "Wait." He heard and turned his head to meet the grey-blue eyes. 

    "I am renting a flat, just beside this cafe as a matter of fact, and in need of a flat share." 

  John - who was still recovering and attempting to maintain a composed breathing pattern and heart rate - kept his eyes on the hand that still held him. Fingers delicately wrapped perfectly around, and he imagined how they would feel entwined with his own. He reddened at the thought and cleared his throat.

    "I- uh-you-w-what..?"

 Sherlock's face twisted in confusion before he too realized where his hand still rested, and removed it swiftly, cheeks flushing slightly - John oblivious to the colour change.

    "I-I am in need of a flat share, Dr. Watson."

    "O-oh."

    "If you accept my job offer, John, I will not only offer you a slight form of income -  in which a quarter can go towards rent - but also a place to sleep."

  It was then when John's mind began going back to normal and he started processing what Sherlock was telling him. "I-uh-oh." He stuttered, still a bit shocked.

  Sherlock's head turned and eyes wandered about the cafe. "You need not answer me right now, I'm sure you have a lot to think abou-"

    "O-Ok." 

  Sherlock's eyes widened as he turned back to face him - mouth slightly parted and eyes blinking rapidly - "What?"

    "I said alright." John extended his hand to the man. "I accept your offer, sir" he grinned.  

  Sherlock took it, and shook. 

  With hands still grasped, John continued, "a discussion of pay is still up for debate?" 

    "Of course." Sherlock grinned and both men separated. 

    "Well, now I guess my days planned." John joked and leaned on his cane.

    "I-"

    "Mr. Holmes!" 

  A boy, around 8 or 10, John assumed, came running through the doors and charged toward Sherlock with a letter in hand. He just about knocked into John as he flapped the paper out in front and tried to catch his breath. "Mr, Holmes! Telegram from inspector Lestrade!" 

    "Ah, thank you, Billy."

  John's brows furrowed at the name. "Lestrade?" He turned to Sherlock, who scanned over the tiny sheet. "You know Greg?"

    "Who?" Eyes not even bothering to meet his own.

    "Greg Lestrade, you know him?"

   "I know a Lestrade." He said flatly, handing the sheet back to the young boy, and readjusting his long coat. "Greg's his first name...?" He questioned, as if talking to himself. "Dull name. Anyway John, I must go now, businesses calls. I look forward to signing on our agreement."  

    "Wa-"

   "No questions." Sherlock flipped the collar of his long coat casually and walked to the door, one hand on the handle while the other sat comfortably in his pocket. "1:00pm sharp. The address is 221B Baker St." He winked at the befuddled doctor before vanishing from the doorframe and down the streets of London.

   "How the bloody hell does he know Greg?" He questioned aloud. Several strangers turned to look at him.

_Right_.

  He placed some change on the table, gathered the scattered sheets of papers, and began the trek home. 

_Well_. He thought, hobbling along the busy walkway, _I guess it's my 'old' home now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO almost 200 hits! Thanks to everyone reading the story so far :)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <3


	6. New Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Update Wednesday!! (I will probably keep saying that XD)

    Loading up his belongings the next morning into the taxi felt like a  weight off of his shoulders but also added to a growing pit in his stomach. The pit of anxiety and fear of the unknown. 

    Surely he was rushing into things, of course. Having just only met the man the other day and already agreeing to both working with him AND moving into his flat. It seemed like a big jump. Alas, he eventually tried to reason with his brain and give in. The driver asking his destination threw him from his thoughts. "221B Baker Street, please." Even just saying it felt unreal to him. 

   The car ride was silent which gave him more than enough time to take in his surroundings. More importantly, the very fancy interior. Wait. Wait a minute. This was no taxi. Polished leather seats ruled the interior and as John quickly glanced to the driver he bore a well tailored suit and polished driving cap. 

   "E-excuse me" John called up front, his hand nervously tapping against his thigh. Just as he looked out the car window the familiar sign of Speedy's swept past them. John reached for his cane as his mind raced and his reflexes began to kick in. He slowly started to lean toward the driver as he pulled his cane up and rammed it-

   The end of the cane hit a wall and jumped back; handle hitting just below his eye. John called out in pain and pushed back into his seat, delicately patting the injured area. It would most definitely bruise. 

   The car stopped, and the driver looked back at him, face lined with 'unimpressed' as he examined the plastic cover dividing the driver and subject. Without saying a word he sighed and got out of the vehicle, trekking over to John's side of the car, and opening the door. "We have arrived" he mumbled. 

   "No." he heard, and eyes shot to the stubborn man with arms folded over his chest. "Who are you, and where am I?" 

   The driver cleared his throat and looked straight ahead once again, blinking in response. "Are you bloody mute now that you can't answer me?!" John's voice grew with anger. 

   Silence. 

   The driver still stood unfazed and proper as he looked to John from out of the corner of his eye. He outreached his arm a little, signalling the stubborn man to get out of the car. John's response was child-like; sitting back in his chair with arms still folded. 

   "Having a bit of trouble I see?" 

   John's eyes shot to a tall man standing very straight and, well, proper at the entrance of a very posh looking manor. _Spy_. He thought, eyes narrowing and fingers curling as the man approached the car. He had red hair, neatly gelled back and dawned a well tailored - and quite posh - three piece suit. In his hand rested a long black umbrella that John immediately took in as a weapon. 

   The driver nodded politely to his superior and looked back to John; the same dumb look plastered on his face that made the doctor just want to punch him. 

   "And Dr. Watson I presume you had a very - how shall I say it - _productive_ trip." The man slowly began walking in the direction of the car, stopping just a little in front of the driver. His lips folded in in a smirk as he pointed just below his own eye. 

    _Cocky bastard._

   "Who are you?" John hissed.

   "Oh excuse me, where are my manners." The man went to take a step foreword but paused "Is it safe to approach the vehicle, Doctor?" 

   "I don't know. You tell me." John's eyes still narrowed and hand automatically reaching for his cane. He heard the man chuckle at the comment before he was standing right outside the car door with a hand extended to him. 

   "I am Mycroft." 

   John stared at the outreached peace offering and then back up to Mycroft's eyes. 

   "Trust issues I see. Still thinking I am a spy. Dr. Watson? A bit childish don't you think? Making up fantasies and situations in your head." 

   "Don't torment me.." John replied, other hand subconsciously drumming against his thigh. 

   "Really, Doctor. If I wanted to kill you or _kidnap_ you for that matter, it would have been done by now. No, I have more - how should I say - important matters to attend to. What do you know of Sherlock Holmes?"

   John snorted and licked his lip. "That's important?" 

   "How about I ask the questions and you answer them." Mycroft replied flatly. 

   John was really starting to hate this man. "Nothing." 

   The taller man produced a throaty chuckle and grinned at the doctor. "Just last week you meet, start working for him and accept shared lodgings all in the same day. Should I speculate a scandalous affair, Doctor Watson?" 

   It was now John's turned to be shocked out of words and then tried to revoke. "W-what are you implying?" 

   Mycroft grinned and the turned to the driver, nodding to him and proceeded to the front door of his decorated manor. John just sat their dumbfounded as the car door shut in front of his him and began moving. 

_Scandalous affair? AFFAIR?_  

~

   The car stopped out-front Speedy's cafe and once again the driver stepped out to open John's door. "Will you be needing assistance with your bags, sir?"  

   John re-positioned himself and slowly got up from his seat, fixing up his coat and adjusting the cane in his hand. "Yes." He responded flatly, clearly still annoyed with the young driver.

   "Very well." 

   The man proceeded to empty the contents of the trunk as John stood on the sidewalk looking up at his new home. He was quite fortunate that such a cozy looking exterior could soon be partially his and he mentally wished the inside was just as nice. Removing his cap to run a hand through his hair, he proceeded to the front door and used the shiny brass knocker to knock on the welcoming door. 

   The numbers 221B caught the light as the golden colour reflected the sun. John took a deep breath and his fingers subconsciously began strumming the rim of his cap. The click of the doorknob was his signal and John straightened up as much as he possibly could, re-adjusting himself on his cane. 

   "Dr. Watson?" 

   The familiar voice caught John by surprise and he looked to its owner with widened eyes. "Mrs. Hudson?"

   A large smile captured the woman's mouth as she opened the door wider and scooted to the side, offering the doctor more room to squeeze through. "I was told that Sherlock would be getting a new flatmate, but he never mentioned it was you!" 

   "Yes, well, I was just as shocked. Still am, actually." He grinned, and stopped in the hallway. His belongings were starting to pile beside him, as the driver began making two more trips from the car to the flat. Mrs. Hudson examined the few bags he had with a frown. John noticed almost instantly and subconsciously began rubbing the back of his neck.  

   "So you're..?"

   "The landlady. This was my husbands last investment and our home as a matter of fact. I'm just on the first floor here if you need me." 

   "Ah." 

   The scuffing of footsteps stopping at the doorframe of the front door made John's eyes wander to the young man holding a pillowcase containing a thin, square object . "Where would you like this to go, sir? It was in the back seat so I was thought it would be important." 

   John's eyes widened and he hobbled quickly, grabbing the parcel carefully with his left hand and tucking it underneath his arm. "T-thank you." He breathed a sigh of relief. A raising of an eyebrow came from the young man and he bowed his head before turning on his heel and leaving.

   It took a moment for John to come back to reality before he turned back to Mrs. Hudson and his stomach fell at the sight. He saw her eyes widen and pinpoint an area on his face and a  hand going up to cover her somewhat gaping mouth gave John the answer for her actions. 

   "It's just a bruise Mrs. Hudson, it will pass." 

   "Goodness, John! Did you get heckled in the streets? Shame on those fools! Attacking a poor man like yourself-" she was caught in her words right away. John's face fell, followed by his eyes, and the wooden floor below never looked so depressing and interesting at the same time.

   "Oh John I didn't mean-"

   "I-its alright." He mumbled and started for the stairs, trying to position himself to ascend them safely. "I am a poor and beaten man, Mrs. Hudson. You're not wrong there." While still staring at the ground below he continued up to steps, reaching the second floor. 

    John noticed the door at the top step ajar and he was tempted to just open it but resorted to knocking instead. No answer. 

    _Just as well_.

   The pause had him turning to the other set of stairs which Sherlock had mentioned to him last week would be his lodgings.  

   "Come in." A deep voice called from behind the door. John was a little shocked and cleared his throat before lightly putting pressure on the door and exposing the dusty, but quaint sitting room. 

   "Ah, John. You made it." 

     John's eyes followed the voice and saw the unruly musician sprawled out on a quite comfortable looking sofa. He wore dress pants and a shirt and had a royal blue night-robe draped around his stretched body. "What's wrong?" 

    John turned his attention back to the room around him, taking it all in as he licked his lips. "Nothing."

   The sound of moving leather was a signal that Sherlock shifted to sitting upright - and 'proper' - on the leather couch. 

   "Your eye..."

   "Just a little accident." He brushed it off bitterly, leaning against his cane. "It was my fault anyway." 

    Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes still laced with something other than concern. "Anyway!" His voice broke through the room and John turned to him, startled a little by the booming voice. "There is a free bedroom upstairs, kitchen is just through that archway and the restroom is just down that hall." Sherlock got up from his lounging and walked up to the doctor, placing his hands in the pockets of his robe. "My bedroom is off limits, of course, but the rest of the flat is yours to share. 

    John carefully leaned the the wrapped parcel on the doorframe and outreached his hand to Sherlock. "Thank you."

   Sherlock was a bit surprised by the warmth in his tone but obliged to the offering, shaking his hand and then coasting through the doorway beside him. "I suppose you will be needing assistance, doctor?" 

   "Y-yes please." 

    Sherlock eyed the square up against the frame and arched a brow, "May I?" He asked, slowly leaning down to retrieve it. It was almost automatic that John went to step in front of it, blocking the musicians hand and view from his property. "I-I can take this one Sherlock, the rest of my belongings are downstairs." 

   "As you wish." Came a reply, and John heard the clattering of footsteps descend the steps. He took a sigh of relief after picking up the wrapped square with caution and put all his energy into ascending to the third floor. The room in itself was quite spacious - bigger than his previous room - and John took a steady breath, calming his nerves. He got to work straight away finding a perfect space on his wall and a perfectly sized nail; slightly receding from the tacky wallpaper. He grinned to himself. 

    _Perfect._   

   John carefully went to the wrapped object and proceeded to remove the pillowcase. He removed a layer of newspaper then to expose a beautiful piece of artwork. A grand piano. The piece in itself was created with such detail that it displayed the delicate musical piece in the centre of a spotlight. It was one of the very few things John owned that he could say he was proud of. Coming up with his own money to commission it, he was very reluctant to ever sell it, and so it was his most guarded possession. 

   John went back to the nail in the wall and hung the painting up, examining it over once again while mentally kicking himself from the little spots of tea stain from his most recent outbreak. 

    _"You've always loved that piano."_ The voice ringing through his ears caused John to stumble to the empty bed, falling back on it in shock.

   "You're dead." He responded, automatically shutting his eyes in protest.

   A chuckle roared over his brain before it silenced. _"I'm never dead, John. I'll always be with you."_

   John immediately went to claw at his ears as he felt the heat of newly formed tears run down his cheeks. "You said you would be safe! You lied! You bloody lied to me damnit!"

   When John opened his eyes he saw a figure at the doorframe. Dressed in tattered military clothes, dawning a cropped military cut and several new bruises and wounds, stood his old Commander. His face looked saddened and soft as he stared intently at the sprawled out doctor. 

   John got up roughly from the bed and anger quickly engulfed his senses. Charging at the figure in full force made his injured leg sting, but he didn't care. He grabbed the man from the collar of his dusty and torn shirt and threw him against the wall. "How dare you come find me. How dare you! Five months, Sholto....FIVE, BLOODY MONTHS!" John was sobbing now, shoulders shaking like mad and his legs felt like jelly. He tried to stay up as best he could but his body objected and he ended up sinking to the floor. 

   The voices in his mind began plaguing him again, repeating the word ' _broken_ ' in his mind like a scratched record on a phonograph. A soft touch on his right shoulder brought him back to reality and John slowly opened up his red-rimmed and dampened eyes to affix them on a familiar and handsome face. 

   "John." The other spoke, concern this time on his face with a hint of... _Examination_? _Is he examining me right now?_ John shuffled on his hands to take in the sight before him. Sherlock was in front of him, slightly bent down on one knee with the collar of his dress shirt creased and scrunched up as if-

   "I hurt you..." he breathed, his lungs now burning. 

   "No. no you didn't hurt me." Sherlock whispered carefully, reaching for John again.

    John moved back on the floor, avoiding him. "I-I'm a monster....I-I'm sorry!" 

   "You're not a monster and you did not hurt me, John-" 

   "I hurt you like I hurt everyone else! I'm a murderer Sherlock Holmes! A bloody murderer!"  

   John opened up his mouth to retort once again when he felt a cool hand on his face. The contact make him shudder but he could not feel any protest in himself to pull back from it. The hand rested on his cheek and John felt his breathing even out. Looking up into the grey-blue eyes of the musician allowed him to feel a slight tinge of peace and comfort. It was odd to him at first, but the longer he stared into them, the more comfort he felt.

   "You are not a monster, John Watson, and you did not hurt me in any way. Now let us get you up and come have a cup of tea with me in the sitting room. We will deal with your belongings later." 

   John nodded, wiping at his eyes and then bracing himself on Sherlock as the man proceeded to help him to his feet. "I-I'm sorry..." he breathed, unable to find his voice. 

   "All is forgiven." He heard in response and watched as the man grabbed his cane at the side of the bed, handing it to him and then proceeded down to the second floor.

   John stood in his place for a minute or two, subconsciously feeling his cheek - craving for the touch of the mysterious musician. It was difficult for John to describe the feeling when the contact was broken, but it left both his skin and heart wanting more. He shook his head at the thought and gripped his cane harder before following down the steps. 

  _Stop this. I can't repeat the same mistakes again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooo, what could possibly be the story behind John's painting I wonder...and Sholto, is that you?...
> 
> I've also currently started writing a new story that is a Fantasy!lock take on an idea I had. Its called: 'Eclipsed'. Would be really awesome if you could check it out. :)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <3


	7. A Glimpse From the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Update Wednesday! 
> 
> Just a little note: My apologies that this is a short chapter. I unfortunately had to rush this one because I've been busy and haven't had enough time to write. I just wanted to make sure you all had an update this week, so hope you enjoy it! :)

_*_ DISCLAIMER: There is some blood and war mentioned in this chapter, just keep in mind. _*_

 

_"My leg, p-please! M-my leg!"_  

_"Yes, I'm working on it! I need you to keep still, here, it will somewhat numb the pain." John grabbed his flask filled of cheap whiskey and tipped the contents into the wailing man's mouth, then splashed some on the wound. Setting it down sloppily on the instrument table, he grabbed for a wooden stick. "Bite on this."_

_"Bloody hell, why?!" The soldier was breathing radically and was soon to pass out if he kept it up._

_"Just do as I say!" John commanded, sticking the rounded piece of wood into his mouth and reaching for the surgical pliers. The candle light was the only available source while bullets from just outside his bunker fired away. John cursed the sodding trenches and brought the light as close as possible to the gushing wound. He stuck the pliers in while consistently blotting at the blood beginning to pool over with a mud stained rag. A glint in the flesh caught his eye and he quickly removed the bullet with ease, ignoring the muffled curses and cries of the patient. "It's out, ok?! It's out!" He yelled, a grenade going off several seconds after. John cursed aloud; he was running out of time._

_He grabbed for his needle and silk and went to work, stitching the leg up with as much precision as he could muster._

_"Watson! We need you out, now!" A voice from outside the bunker called, it was his commanding officer._

_"I'm almost done!" John reached for bandages, wrapping the wound as tight as possible and holding it with a safety pin._

_"NOW WATSON, THAT'S AN ORDER!"_

_"Then bloody help me!" He yelled, taking the stick out of the now passed out soldier's mouth, and rolled him on his side, bending down to grab at his arms and hoist him onto his back. The door opened and Sholto dragged John out of the bunker, bolting to cover. Several bullets flew past them, causing them to almost lay flat down on their stomachs behind the shallow wall of dirt. "Christ sake Watson, when I tell you to do something you do it!"_

_"Don't ask me to walk away from the wounded, Sholto!" A grenade exploded in front of them causing mud to spray and block their vision. The soldier, still on John's back, groaned. "He's up!"_

_"What?"_

_"We need to move!" John shouted, peeking over the shallow wall they called 'cover'._

_"I give the orders, bloody hell!"_

_Both men jumped to their feet and bolted in the opposite direction of gunfire; John's legs never moved that fast in his life. His left arm never hurt so much in his life either._

_It was a pain he quickly put in the back of his mind to concentrate ahead. When they reached the munitions bunker, John lowered the wounded man down and noticed the crimson liquid seeping through his brown uniform. "Jesus." His voice lacking any form of concern but rather annoyance and he quickly turned to Sholto who was grabbing for any weapon he could get hold of._

_"Take this" A rifle landed on John's chest and his hands reflectively grabbed hold of it._

_"We can't stay here, Sholto!"_

_"Don't I know it." He hissed, reaching for Richter; the wounded soldier still groaning on the muddied ground._

_John went straight to the door once again with the rifle positioned in his uninjured arm out in front. "Ready?" He called back, getting a grunt in response and kicked it open, firing at a German soldier who leapt down from the trench wall several feet away. "Take him!" Sholto shouted and grabbed at John; fingers gripping tightly against his wounded shoulder. John's eyes shut in pain and he hoisted the gun on his shoulder and grabbed for Richter; adrenalin in his body still pumping._

_"Follow my lead, Watson!"_

_The two men (and injured party) ran through mud and maneuvered past their dead comrades all while avoiding gunshots and grenades. They turned down an uncarved isle and stopped dead in their tracks when a large figure jumped down in front of them wearing what John could make out as a gas mask._

_No...._

_"SHOLTO R-"_

_John's words were cut off almost instantly as the figure pulled out a small grenade like device and threw it at their feet. A cloud of smoke quickly began to form and John's lungs burned while his eyes watered - blurring his vision. The next thing he remembered before blacking out was his name being called repeatedly; a familiar sounding voice._

   "John. John. John!"

~

   John's eyes shot open and his arm immediately began to ache. He felt sheets entangled around his body and he shivered from his sweat drenched nightshirt. His heart picked up speed while his mind worked a mile a minute tying to decipher just exactly where he was. 

   Then he felt it. A cool and damp cloth found its way on his forehead and John took a deep breath. "You had a bad dream." 

   The familiar voice he heard calling his name caught his attention and he looked through the dimly lit lamp light to see the face of his flatmate. 

   "Jesus..." John took another steadying breath "it was just a dream..." 

   "Is this normal for you?" Sherlock asked and John just blinked at him. "I'm supposing it is."

   "Yes...it is..."

   "Ah, I see."

   "Couldn't deduce it then?" John quipped through ragged breaths, getting a small smile from the musician and then continued; "What did-did I....say..anything?" 

   "I heard a lot of yelling, but most of it was just jibberish and nonsensical. But I must inform you, Doctor Watson, you are in no danger."

   John chuckled and gently messaged his wounded upper body after readjusting himself in his covers. "I thank you for your interference Mr. Holmes, and I greatly apologize if I woke you."     

   He saw the man grin - lamplight illuminating his gentle face in the most beautiful way. "T-thank you again." John's voice faltered at the sight. 

   Sherlock got himself up from the spot beside John's bed and walked to the doorway, nodding back at the doctor. 

   As he heard the footsteps descending the stairs, John sank back into his pillow and sighed; feeling every ray of embarrassment and self-consciousness rain over him. He dimmed his bedside lamp and lay staring at the ceiling. 

   John never went back to sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I will definitely be returning to John's past in the future so don't think that this will be the only time you will see it!)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read my story! I am truly honoured :)
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	8. The Butcher's Beheading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy N7 Day! (If you're a Mass Effect fan) 
> 
> Also! An early chapter for you all, because you are all amazing <3

   Morning eventually arrived and John's left shoulder throbbed with an uncomfortable pain - growing each passing hour John lay awake during the night. After his nightmarish memory broke through the peace of yesterday, his body rejected him a well rested night yet again. It was a reoccurring theme in his life - being tormented by his past. Forcing his restless and overly tired body from his bed, he immediately set to dress himself. Walking to one of his bigger suitcases, John opened it and removed the clothing within it; laying all the pieces of worn and tidy fabrics on his bed. It took him several minutes to get himself dressed in a comfortable and smart looking white button up dress shirt and a dark grey tweed check waistcoat. He matched the coat with complementary dark grey dress pants and grabbed for his pocket watch, lacing the chain around the top button of his waistcoat, and placing it delicately in the front pocket. 

   Reaching for his cane, John ventured on toward the staircase until his eyes travelled to the standing mirror in the corner. He stared at his reflection with distaste; examining over his worn and tampered frame and up to his tired and sickly pale face that looked like death itself. He cursed the dark circles under his eyes - marking the incident of last night and the battle trophy of yesterday - and his tosseled hair.  

   John took a deep breath, closing his eyes and forcing his mind and body to relax as he began to form a warmth of acceptance through his body. That of course was disrupted by a loud crash from downstairs, causing John to shoot up and bolt down the stairs with army class alertness. 

  Standing in the kitchen over a - now broken - glass vial, stood Sherlock. His face dawning odd looking spectacles to cover his eyes, and a cloud of smoke raising from the base of his feet and clouding up the kitchen. 

  "What the bloody hell are you doing?!" John yelled, eyes going back and forth from the floor to his flatmate.

  Sherlock's head shot up and faced him, a toothy and cheeky grin made an appearance on his face. "Ah, John, you're up." 

  "After that noise?! Of course I am! Now what in God's good name are you doing?!"

  "Just an experiment John, do calm down." Sherlock grabbed a notebook of the table and began scribbling on it furiously.

  "Calm down? Hm? CALM DOWN?! Sherlock I thought a bloody shot was fired!"

  Sherlock looked back up with a frown before returning to his notebook. "Don't be ridiculous, it was just a small mixture of methane gas and oxygen causing a chemical reaction. Combustion, John." 

  John's mouth formed a thin line and his left hand flexed angrily. Sherlock, who remained unfazed by the displeased doctor, set the book down after he was done and looked the doctor over curiously. "How was your sleep?"

  John rolled his eyes, placing all of his weight on his cane, and fidgeted with his pocket watch. "Not well." 

  Sherlock remained silent, nodding slowly as his eyes darted around the room uncomfortably. 

  "Not used to small talk, are you?" John asked, a hint of a grin forming on his lips.

  "Not at all, such tedious business it is. Rather dull, if I do say so myself. How one could talk about such random nonsense to find a means to communicate with another human being is...is just so...." 

  "Pointless?" 

  "Precisely, doctor. I knew there was something different about you." 

  John chuckled at the seriousness in Sherlock's demeanour, his face relaxing and a fond expression taking it over. Sherlock abruptly turned back to his work as if John was never talking to him a moment ago. 

  Seeing Sherlock in a white button up dress shirt and an untied bow tie draped around his neck was quite amusing to John. The presence of his dark blue night robe on top made him look even more ridiculous and adorable at the same time; not to mention the protective eyewear he now pulled back on his head, making those black curls stick up on his head like a crown.  

  John's eyes wandered the sitting room in more detail, since his moving in just the day before he never really was able to take a better look at his new home. Eying the paper neatly folded on a side table beside a comfortable looking red armchair, John hobbled over and slumped down, relishing the feeling of utter bliss and relaxation as he lifted the paper and began skimming its contents. 

  He didn't even realize Sherlock was positioned right behind him and leaning over until he felt a warm breath on his ear. John jumped in his seat, the newspaper page crinkling in his grip. "Jesus, Sherlock! Scare me half to death!" 

  "There's been another murder." 

  "What are you on about?" 

  Sherlock pointed a finger at one of the captions on the Strand's Newspaper: 'The Butcher Beheading'. John cringed and brought the paper in closer clearing his throat."'At six'thirty this morning in the local butchery on Dorcet, Carl Merchent - store owner and clerk - was found dead. Police officials state that Carl's body had been found next to one of the shops meat cutting machines. Officials are still figuring out a cause of death at this time and are working vigilantly.' Jesus..." John sunk even deeper in his chair and his hands dropped to his lap, bringing the paper with it.

  Sherlock hummed in response and floundered back to the kitchen. After his mind taking in what he read and running through several questions, John jumped back to Earth. "W-what did you mean about 'another murder'?" The sound of glass being swept up from the kitchen stopped momentarily before starting up again. 

  "Just what I said." 

  "How do you know it was a murder? It could have been an accident for all we know."

   There was an agitated sigh followed by a mumbling of curses and words that John was able to catch "idiot" and "silly little brains". 

   A booming voice from downstairs grabbed both men's attention and John had never seen the musician light up the way he did when the name "Sherlock" was called. 

~

  "John?" 

  "Greg?"

  Greg's eyebrows shot up to his greying hairline with his brown jacket on one hand, and a cream colour boaters hat in the other. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

  "I live here now." John answered, confusion and shock still dawned on his face. 

  "And when did that happen?" 

  "Well...it was planned a week ago but I just moved in yesterday..."

  Greg's brows were knit together and his mouth slightly agape as he turned to Sherlock who had abandoned his experiments on the kitchen table, and now dawned a cup of tea. "Whe-ho-..." Greg lifted a hand, and took a breath of pause before continuing, "How do you two know each other?"   

  "I can see now why you both take an interest in friendship amongst each other. Your constant ask of the same questions and need of some form of answer to ground yourself is excruciating to watch."

   Both men turned to Sherlock with narrowed eyes and lips angrily drawn together. The musician rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea, "I rest my case."

   John turned back to his old friend, "Speaking of which, why are you here?" 

   The inspector cleared his throat and removed a tied up paper package, holding it out to Sherlock. "It's for you. If you've read the Strand then you know what it's 'bout."

   John saw a sparkle in his flat mates eye that he found quite sickening but amusing all the same. With a quick motion, Sherlock retrieved the parcel and pulled at the twine bow holding everything together until an array of paper sheets formed in his hands. He siphoned through them with little care and turned back to Greg. 

   "I'll take it."

   John felt a wave of bewilderment rush over him, "T-take what?"

   "The case, John, the case!" 

   John straightened up in his chair and grabbed for his cane, hoisting himself up in an attempt to face off. "Hold on a minute. What's going on?" 

   Greg looked over to Sherlock with a raised brow, "You didn't tell 'em?"

   "Tell me what?"

   "Tell him? Why? It doesn't concern him anyway." 

   " _Tell me what?_ " John's tone grew impatient.

   "Well I would've told 'em, maybe after that he wouldn't have agreed to move in with you. How did that end up happening anyway?" 

   "Am I a ghost now? Tell me what!?"

   "Oh please, _Graham_. What I choose to say and not to say is my business alone and none other. I told you I would take the case and I-"

   "TELL ME WHAT?!" John's voice boomed through the flat and both men turned to him in surprise.

   After Greg looked over to Sherlock and found there was no answer coming out of him, he cleared his throat and brought his attention back to John. "I best leave you to it. Sherlock, John, keep in touch." Greg bowed his head and went to put on his boaters hat before turning to leave and walk down the steps. 

   John saw red as he stared his flatmate down with hardened eyes and an impatient rush of air through his nose. "Tell. Me. What."

   Sherlock rolled his eyes once again at John and disposed of the cup in his hand. He went into the sitting room and stood at the mirror, fussing with his bow tie. "I'm a consulting detective."

   "A what?"

   "The only one in the world actually, I invented the job. The police, with their tiny and illogical brains come to me when they run into trouble." 

   "Police don't consult amateurs."

   Sherlock stopped mid fold and turned to face the doctor, " _Amateur_. Is that what you really think of me, John?" His face hardened with detest. 

   John cocked his head to the side in challenge. Sherlock smirked.

   "You woke up this morning from a terrible nightmare you regularly have of your past. You planned on unpacking all of your cases this morning but just resulted in unpacking one. Your clothes. Probably because you were unable to after the night you had, _or_ you're still unsure if you are welcome here."

   John's eyes widened as the musician continued.

   "You carry yourself with power and strength yet you feel you lack a sense of moral, odd that you could feel that while carrying an old ' _gift_ ' in your pocket." John's hand immediately went to the pocket watch. "I could say it was yours but by the slight tarnish on the cord, I say it was from a friend. You're too clean of a person to let anything go without care so it was given to you after the fact. Father's? Grandfather's? No, friend. And one that served time with you in the war. Easy enough by the fact that there is still caked on mud nestled in the crevices. Alive? No. Dead. It was the last thing he gave you before his passing. So tell me again, John Watson, am I still an amateur in the eyes of you?" 

   John gaped at him, his brows raised and eyes locked on the curly haired figure before him. "That, was brilliant." 

   Sherlock blinked, speechless, and John's face lit up with a toothy grin. "That was amazing, no police or inspector would ever consult amateurs. And you," he pointed "are anything but." 

   A small smile appeared on the 'consulting detectives face' before he turned back the papers in hand. 

   "So....is it a full time thing or..?"

   "Part time. I play and compose music full time with this recreational activity on the side."

   John snorted, " _Recreational._ It's how you get your kicks, isn't it?" 

   Sherlock looked up at him once again.

   "Proving you're clever." 

   Sherlock dipped his head to read. "That's because I am clever, John. There is little to prove in regards to that." He dropped the papers on his writing desk and hastily went to the coat hanger, reaching for his deep blue belstaff coat.

   John watched with a hint of disappointment tugging at him. "So where are you off to then?" 

   Grabbing his top hat and grasping the door handle with his other hand, Sherlock paused his actions, "To the butcher shop." 

   "The one on Dorcet?"

   "Yes."

   "Ah," John took a deep breath, "must be interesting. Have...fun?" 

   "Will do." And with those parting words, Sherlock opened the door and bolted out, slamming it shut behind him. 

   John sighed at the feeling of being left out but then chastised himself at the fact that him and Sherlock were just simply flat mates and not ' _friends_ '. Of course Sherlock would not even think twice about asking John to tag along. Just look at him? He could hardly get around London without the aid of a taxi and his cane, let alone run the streets of the city following a man he only met just a week prior. But yet it bit at him, clawing at his mind that he in fact wished for something like that to happen to him. To escape the chains of his unfortunate memories and distract his mind entirely with a new adventure. It was what he craved, the thrill of excitement and the presence of fear. 

   He was completely distracted with all of his sulking that he didn't realize that the door to their flat shot open and a tall figure emerged, standing over him. "You were an army doctor."

   John's head shot up and was met with the blue-grey eyes of a beautiful and familiar face.

   "Seen a lot of dead bodies then?"

   "Yes....far too many, enough for a lifetime."

   "Would you like to see more?"

   "Oh God, yes." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will try to give you guys another chapter this week if I can. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	9. The Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (late in the day) Update Wednesday!
> 
> Almost 500 hits! Thank you so much for everyone who had read my story/left a comment/gave it a kudos, I really appreciate it. <3

The store was blocked off by several bobbies and crowds of people, huddled at the entrance. As the cab pulled up just one block down, John felt immediately out of place. To his left, Sherlock was practically bouncing in his seat ready to bound out that door and go do some crime investigation. When he caught John's eye staring however, his demeanour hardened, and the same unreadable face he always wore plastered itself, like a mask, on it. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "We're here." 

John grinned and turned toward the window attempting to hide his fondness, "So it seems."

Without another word, Sherlock climbed out of the car and walked in long strides to the crowded building. John cursed under his breath while he tried to keep up with his companion. He nearly tripped several times on uneven stone but set to right himself straight away. When he managed to reach and forcefully push himself through the closed mass of people, he was stopped by one of the bobbies manning the front entrance.

"'Scuse me sir, but no ones allowed to enter."

"M-my..." John stopped mid sentence in thought. What was he? More importantly, what was Sherlock Holmes? His working companion? Employer? Just the 'flatmate'? He sure as hell wasn't a friend of the consulting detective, that much he knew. But yet it caused John to stutter and contemplate his role in this new scenario. These thoughts were eventually cut off by none other than..

"Sherlock?"

"He's with me."

The bobby looked back at the curly haired gentleman and then back to John. "The cripple's with you? You really-" 

It was almost as if a dangerous spark ignited in Sherlock because he was hovered over the officer in mere seconds from his position in the door, with narrowed eyes. "If you're referring to Dr. John Watson, which I rather fear you are, I suggest you hold on to your tongue before the consequences of both your actions and words will be worth more than just a small slap on the wrist. He is my assistant and will therefore be accompanying myself and Inspector Lestrade to the crime scene where we shall peruse through the given evidence and scold Scotland Yard's overall ability and idiocy."  

The copper was speechless and nodded dumbly, shifting slightly enough for John to pass. John, on the other hand was gobsmacked; eyes bright as he watched the detective with adoration. Since his return to London, John had never really had anyone who stood up for him. When he would get into disagreements at the pub or get mobbed by dimwitted teenagers, no one ever bothered to step in and take a stand. Being in the war John was always meant to have a thick skin and retaliate, which he often would do, but when there was only so much a crippled and wounded man like him could do, pity from others was the last thing he needed - and wanted. Pity was what he usually got, however.

John hobbled behind Sherlock who walked with such vigor and authority -  it was almost as if he were a ship; parting the sea of forensic workers and investigators littering his path. He wondered how he had never known this man before. It was as if fate brought them together, and he thanked whatever gods may be for his good fortune and luck. Thinking about how John had only just met this man last week - and already feeling as if he'd known him for years - felt odd but yet heartwarming.

"John!" Lestrade came out from a corner in the main room and removed a blood soaked glove before extending a hand toward the doctor. 

John took it with a small grin while absorbing his surroundings.  

"Sherlock.." Lestrade muttered in greeting, searching around for the detective that was no where to be seen. "He's normally like that." Greg said with a sigh. 

"John!" 

A call from the back room behind the counter caught both men's attention. "I best be - um off then." John motioned toward the door sheepishly before following the voice. 

Sherlock was ducked down over a body, magnifying glass in hand and eyes scanning rapidly over the decapitated and deformed corpse. John stood in the doorway still feeling out of place as Lestrade brushed passed him. "You might want to remove your jacket, Dr. Watson" he chided and hovered over the enamoured detective. 

John nodded dumbly slowly removing his dress jacket and placing it on one of the clean countertops. 

"John." 

He turned to Sherlock, or more like Sherlock's arse. The detectives behind was directly facing John, slightly raised in the air as he was clearly leaning in for a closer look at something. Clearly. It was very indecent, of course, but John couldn't help taking a nice long look; his cheeks and ears turning a bright red which was not noticeable at all! (Clearly.)

Lestrade watched him with a wrinkled brow, "John..."

There was a cough and a clearing of a throat bringing him back to reality. Greg's eyes were glued to the army doctor with a look of concern. 

Oh he didn't notice. _Thank God._

"You got a fever?" The detective inspector walked toward him and pulled out his handkerchief, passing it over. John nodded in thanks and quickly dabbed at his brow before returning to Sherlock - who now sat up staring at him with annoyance. 

"I'm sorry, have you suddenly changed your name?" 

"S-...Sorry?"

Sherlock sighed and re-adjusted himself on one knee, "I called your named twice and you still stand there like a dim witted officer of the Yard." 

"Hey!" Greg called out in irritation.

John stammered but went over to the detective, already getting a better view of the grotesque corpse. 

Carl Merchent - his body hardly recognizable - lay sprawled out and headless on the cool tile floor. His head was removed and rested on one of the slicing machines; a trail of drying blood guiding the men to it. The smell wasn't all that great either, mould and the scent of death filling the small room. It was a scent John was quite familiar with and as he leant down carefully to take a better look, it completely filled his nostrils.

"It was clearly chopped right off, could have been an axe."

Sherlock was staring at him now, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration. 

"There's a mark here," John pointed to the large chunk of spine poking out slightly from the flesh, "he must've had to hack at it several times." He then skimmed down the body, examining the cuts and lacerations on the arms then sat back with a sigh. "Jesus..." 

"Excellent observations John." 

Sherlock got to his feet and placed his magnifying glass in his pant pocket before walking over to the severed head, lying on a meat cutter. "So we have a potential weapon and an act. But what was the motivation?"

John cleared his throat. "I don't-"

"Carl Marc Merchant, 42 years old, married with three children, army soldier just returned from the war, store owner and compulsive liar. He owes the bank a sum amount of money but has no means to pay it back. He's in debt. The note in his front pocket suggests that he's been spending it. Drinker? Gambler? No. he's avoiding something - or more like someone. Thus the little money he earns he's spending it trying to protect himself. This week, however, was not a good one, oh no, Carl couldn't even pay the bills. No money. Thus his dead body is lying on the cold, damp floor of this forsaken meat shop." Sherlock turned back to the two men who stood wide eyed and completely focused. "Carl Merchant died from some sort of scandal, what it is I have yet to find out."

"That was....."

Sherlocks eyes shot to John.

"Absolutely brilliant!"

A smirk played on his lips. "Thank you."

Lestrade piped up, "So he's involved with something?" 

"Something...or _someone_." Sherlock strode past the two gentleman and handed John a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. "Keep me up to date with any news, Lestrade." With that, the consulting detective grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door before anyone could speak another word. 

"Well I, um, best go follow him." John cut in and went on his way.

"Watson!" 

John turned back to his friend, "Take care of yourself, yea? And keep an eye on him." 

 ~ 

Stepping out on the street was like taking a breath of fresh air. The crowd of people that once surrounded the shops now dwindled, and fewer people stopped on the street to take a peek. Looking around for a familiar mass of dark curls was a losing battle; it caused John to feel a little disappointed and abandoned. He was gone.

The copper at the door he recognized walked over with a grim expression. "Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has already left."

"D'you know where he went off to?" 

"Not at all sir, he normally does this. It's his thing, the whole mysterious business." 

_Ah_. 

"Right. Thank you." John tipped his hat to the young man and began searching for a street sign or any form of landmark as he began walking the streets. Stopping mid way, John's attention was drawn the the crumpled letter in his grip. He unfolded it with little care but his breath caught in his throat and his brows knit themselves together as he read it's contents. 

 

_Carl,_

 

_You can run, and you can hide, but no amount of stories will change my mind._

_I promised you an end, and an end you will receive._

_A better question yet: Did you miss me?_

 

_M_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so late in the day! School's been busy :P 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	10. M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Wednesday, another chapter.... <3 ya!
> 
> (I'm probably not accurate in military enlisting things during that time, so my apologies. But remember: I'm not trying to be historically 'correct' *this is just for fun and getting my ideas out there* XD)

  Arriving back at the flat, John deposited the letter on their work desk and proceeded to the kitchen. He put the kettle on without giving a second thought and layered out some biscuits on a plate. After his cuppa was made, John rested on his newly claimed armchair and zoned out completely; mind reeling around who 'M' could possibly be. Could it have been that Mycroft fellow he had that terrible run in with? He did question about his relations with Sherlock, but the more he thought about it, it just didn't quite fit - he didn't seem like the 'killing' type. Yet looks can be deceiving.

  His eyes grew heavy as the day passed into evening and his flatmate did not return home. There was no point for John to wait up for him, no one ever did for him anyways. Instead, he let himself relax in his chair as the sun beat against he little amount of skin peeking through his dress shirt.  

~

_The keys were cool against his calloused fingers as he gently caressed them; producing such a beautiful melody. The crowd cheered as their calls echoed within the small dining establishment. John got up from his seat and took a long bow, smiling broadly at the honourable audience._

_Stepping down from the stage, John caught the eye of Mike who beckoned him over with a toothy smile._

_"That was brilliant, John!"_

_"Ta."_

_"Here", Mike handed him a small glass of whiskey and clinked his glass to it, "to new opportunities and rise of fame!"_

_John chuckled and downed the contents, squeezing his eyes shut and relishing the burn as it passed down his throat._

_"Tonight's performance might be the break-through you've dreamt about, wadda'ya think?"_

_"Well, if audiences think that this is the best it could possibly get, they're in for a surprise."_

_Mike clapped his friend on the back, "This is just the beginning, John." The two men began discussing future venues and opportunities Mike had come across through his office contacts, when a hollow clapping rang through the - now dwindling - restaurant._

_"Excellent, Mr. Watson. Excellent performance indeed."_

_John turned to the source of praise and was faced with a gentleman who - dare he say it - looked almost like a preying hawk. His piercing black eyes bore into John with menacing intent followed by that thin lipped grin that held no content. John had never seen this man before but he tried to place the accent. Irish?_

_"Excuse me, do I know you?"_

_The man chuckled, an unsettling tune, causing the hair on the back John's neck to stand._

_"Oh Mr. Watson, you mean you don't know who I am?"_

_John's eyes narrowed; brain still trying to place the man in front of him. Nothing._

_"You have heard of me, haven't you?"_

_John shook his head._

_"Does the name Jim Moriarty ring a bell?"_

_Jim Moriarty....THE Jim Moriarty...? John's eyes widened as he felt the air knock out of his lungs. "M-Mr. Moriarty! M-my apologies, I was not aware you would be attending tonight's performance!"_

_"No one ever does." He replied with a sly grin as he turned to Mike. "And you are...?"_

_"Mike Stamford, Mr. Moriarty, sir! I'm John's manager."_

_Jim nodded automatically - as if he wasn't even listening - "Mike, was it? Would you mind grabbing me a drink? I would do it myself but since I have a moment with the musician of the night, I wouldn't like to waste time on the travel."_

_"Of course!" Mike replied happily and excused himself before returning to the bar._

_"I hope the evening was enjoyable, sir."_

_"Very much so, John. May I call you John?"_

_"I-"_

_"Good. I dare say, I will have so much to write about you on tonight's performance for the paper."_

_John looked a little scared at the thought of being written about by Jim Moriarty himself. Jim was the head critic of the musical arts for The Strand. Being a powerful and influential player within the industry, and all of London, he could be your best friend or your worst nightmare when it came to ink. John was never really one to follow up on such gossip, but when it came down to his art, John felt constant pressure to achieve a name for himself. And a good one at that._

_"Good things, I hope." John joked, laughing nervously._

_"We will just have to wait until tomorrow, shan't we." It was more of a statement than a question and John couldn't help but notice the sinister twinkle in the man's eye._

_When Mike returned, handing a glass over to the critic, John had to excuse himself and retreated to the loo. He was panicking now. And his breath was picking up. Not good._

_He barely had time to register the upcoming panic attack because just as he turned the faucet on to cold, two men wearing light brown army uniforms barged through the doors. "John Watson?"_

_"Y-yes?"_

_"Sir, we need you to come with us."_

_"Where?"_

_"You've been called to arms by his majesty, Mr. Watson."_

_"I-I've been...conscripted..?"_

_"If you would come with us, sir. In our report you are to be sent to the field as soon as possible to aid the war effort."_

_John felt light headed. His knees buckled and he never had the urge to pass out, until today that is._

 

_"Is it true that you attended St. Bart's hospital for study and received a doctorate?"_

_John nodded numbly, still unable to register anything at the moment._

_"Very well." The two men grabbed hold of the - almost passed out - pianist as they escorted him to a car out front._

_Of course, Mike got the message afterward._

~

   A door slam from downstairs caused John to jump in his seat, waking him from an unpleasant memory. He quickly grabbed his cane and made to stand himself up just before Sherlock barged through their door with a stack of papers in hand.

  "What the bloody hell is all that?!"

   Sherlock scrounged through the mass after placing them all on their work desk. 

   "Sherlock."

   "They're papers, John! Do be more observant."

   John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Yes I can see that. I mean, what is all of it?"

   Sherlock paused and looked at John with such annoyance, it made his cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. "It's regarding the case, John. Papers of information regarding those who knew Carl Merchent. Close friends, family, co-workers, so on so forth." He paused before looking back at the desk in front. "Did you read the note?"

   "Yes. It was from an M."

   Sherlock hummed in reply. "M, M, M." he held up a sheet to his face, "Matthew?" A scrunch of his nose, and he tossed the paper over his shoulder. 

   "You know I met someone the other day. His name started with an M." _God what was his name again_ , "Mic...mike...may..?"  

   "Mycroft."

   "That's it!" John snapped, eyes lighting up.

   "Ugh, what did he want?"

   "He asked me about you, shockingly. Wanted to know how I know you and _what_ I know of you."

   "And what did you tell him?" Sherlock was still siphoning through stacks of papers, throwing them unceremoniously over his shoulder. Every time his nose would crinkle, or his eyes would roll, John would try to hold back a laugh at the impatient, part-time-consulting-detective-musician.

   "Nothing, why would I tell him anything?"

   "He didn't offer you any money?"

   "I don't work on bribery." John grinned.

   Sherlock looked up from under his lashes and stood up from his hunching position. "You surprise me, doctor."

   "I seem to be doing that a lot lately."

   A chuckle from the black haired man graced the warm and comforting sitting room of their flat for a second. Then there were more paper shuffles.

   John cleared his throat, "Tea?" 

   "Please."

 ~

   Evening turned to dusk and both men were still seated amongst all of the papers and surrounded with several empty cups that once housed warm tea.

   "Lets go out."

   The sudden speech from his flatmate woke John from his sleepy state. "What? Go...out?"

   "Yes. As in two people who enjoy each other's company, and need to relieve stress, escape their homes for several hours. I have a place in mind."

   John was dumbfounded. Did Sherlock just willingly ask him for dinner? "O-o...ok?"

   "Good. Do clean yourself up a bit, the venue we will be attending is dressier than what you have on." Sherlock stopped in the hall and turned back to the doctor, "Ten minutes."

   With that, Sherlock left the sitting room and proceeded to his bedroom, door shutting firmly behind him. John sat for a while, still trying to process the events that had just unraveled before him. 

    _Was I just asked to dinner?_  

   A nauseating feeling washed over him before he attempted to beat it away. It's just dinner...just. Dinner. Setting himself upright and testing his legs to see if their shaking still had the ability to hold his weight, he proceeded upstairs to his bedroom for a quick change - and hopefully some means to calm the nerves. 

~ 

  John had just finished tying up the white bow tie around his neck when he heard the familiar voice of his flatmate call him from downstairs. He went to his bedroom door as quickly as possible and carefully maneuvered down the flight of steps to be breathless at the sight before him. Dressed in an all black dinner suit with tail and hair that was prim and neatly gelled back stood the consulting detective. His blue-grey eyes rushed over John before fixing themselves on his eyes. 

   Sherlocks mouth opened up several times but closed right after; as if words refused to leave that gaping hole.

   John took a brief look down at himself - also wearing a black dress suit, but without the tails - and then back up to his flatmate with a grin. It was almost as if Sherlock looked a little...flustered? 

   "Let us proceed, then?" He finally managed to say, and John couldn't help but smile. 

   "After you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to give you all another chapter this week! Hopefully I'm not overrun. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	11. The Outing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A tag has been added* 
> 
> Thank you so much for the Kudos and for those who have taken the time to read my fic. It is such a motivation when writing to know that people are enjoying it. Thank you again <3

  When they arrived at their destination, John couldn't believe his eyes at the sign overtop the decorated door of the establishment. The Landmark was a five star restaurant and one in which John had dreamt of performing at. Just seeing the white lights decorating the polished and serene exterior, made his stomach turn in delight. 

   He had always heard the best of the best musicians being given a chance to play at this exquisite place, and those who did happen to perform were either big name artists, or those who composed but had great talent - worthy for more. John had never made it that far is his music career, mostly due to the medical degree his father drove him to get, and to the war that cut right through his hopes and dreams. He never wanted to become a doctor - or a _field doctor_ for that matter - but the expectation put upon him by his father, and the role his older sister had set - becoming a secretary in parliament - John was forced to compete. 

  As the two men pushed open the doors to the well-kept establishment, they were greeted by a young gentleman dawning a very heavy French accent and thin black moustache. "Greetings, Monsieur's, welcome to the Landmark, do you have a reservation?" 

  "Holmes." Sherlock responded, removing his leather gloves and stuffing them in the pockets of his flowing coat. 

  "Ah, oui! Monsieur Holmes! My apologies for not recognizing you straight away! May I say it is such a pleasure to see you again." 

  John's eyebrows hitched as he looked over to his flatmate. _A pleasure?_

  "Merci, Stephano. Now, I do hope that it's the usual?" 

  "But of course, Monsieur Holmes! Nothing but the best for you."

  Sherlock nodded and then looked over to John with a fond expression, "This is my colleague, Dr. Watson."

  John bowed his head in greeting and positioned himself on his cane before outreaching his hand for a shake. 

  _So I'm his colleague. Good enough._

  "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson. Please, follow me to your seat." 

  The two gentlemen weaved through the rows of tables until they arrived at a two seated table draped with a cream tablecloth and a intricate crystal candleholder. With menus passed out and both of them seated, John was able to get a better view of the room around him. The Landmark was definitely a sight to behold. With a spiral staircase gracing the back of the room to a second floor, and a crystal chandelier hanging above it, the room was comprised of many decorated tables and a small stage on the furthest left hand side. John couldn't help but gawk at the beautiful piano that stood atop it. Too many memories rushed back and he shook his head violently to clear it. When he turned back, Sherlock was eyeing him curiously. "Something the matter?" 

  "Hm? Oh, n-no." 

  He remained unconvinced, but instead of pushing forward, he let it go to John's surprise. "Have you figured out what you will be eating?" He asked, flipping through the menu before placing it down on the table. 

  John flipped through it, scanning the items quickly before deciding on then veal parmesan and joined the menu with Sherlock's. "I think I'll go with the veal."

  "Good choice."

  "And you?"

  Sherlock nodded his head toward the approaching waiter with a grin and John turned his head, giving a knowing smile. "Perfect timing." 

  "Good evening, Mr. Holmes, and his guest."

  "Peter."

  "What may I get you both this evening? Will it be the usual, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Yes, thank you, and a bottle of one of your finest vintages."

  John's eyes brows shot up as his mouth widened, "U-um, Sherlock, that's a bit pricey don't you think?" 

  "Nonsense, John." He flapped his hand at him before returning to Peter. "And John here will have the veal."

  "Very well sir." Pater bowed his head before retrieving the menus and set off to the kitchen.

  John cleared his throat, regaining himself a little after the price shock, and fiddled with the cane handle settled against the table. "So I'm guessing you come here often."

  "Excellent deduction, John." Sherlock replied dryly, eyes not even bothering to meet his own. 

  John snorted and tried to follow his gaze, "Well, I guess you're rubbing off on me."

  There was silence from the other end of the table and John took it as his flatmate ignoring the comment. The two of them sat in companionable silence as they waited for their food. Peter ended up bringing the wine and they idly drank from their glasses.

  "So," - John breaking the quiet streak - "any reason why we're here?" Sherlock gave him a questionable glance and he continued "Because we could have gone anywhere, someplace quite cheaper, in fact, but here we are."

  "You don't like it." 

  "No! No I don't mean it like that. T-this place is lovely, I used to dream of coming here."

  "But..."

  "But it's expensive, too expensive for two blokes such as ourselves, sharing a flat in the heart of London. We don't even have jobs!"

  "You."

  "What?"

  " _You_ don't have a job, John."

  John sighed and nodded solemnly, eyes baring into the white tablecloth. _Useless. Useless and a user_. "Right..."

  _Useless John._  

  "John, I-"

  Two steaming dishes were set out in front of the two men and a woven basket of bread was placed in the centre - right next to the glowing candle. "Bon appetite." Another waiter smiled before leaving both men who were absorbing the large portions in front of them with their eyes. 

  Looking up from his plate with a large grin, John noticed the pasta dish out in front of Sherlock. The fettuccine dish was laced with freshly grilled chicken, spinach and topped with freshly shredded parmesan. When he looked up at his colleague, John caught an eye roll.

  "What's the matter?"

  Sherlock sighed, twirling his fork in the pasta with a pout, "Angelo, the head chef here, always insists on supplying me with large portions."

  John chuckled at the tone, "D'you know you are the very first person I know who complains about getting more than what you pay for. AND," John pointed at him with a grin, adjusting the serviette on his lap, "and, about food, for that matter."

  Sherlock dabbed the corner of his mouth, before returning it to his lap and looked at John with such seriousness. "Dr. Watson, since you claim to be much more observant then from our first meeting, you should realize that my appetite is slim to none." 

  John chuckled heartedly and took a bite of veal, "Well, he could have possibly taken that into consideration and wants to feed you up." 

  Sherlock pulled a face of child-like revolt, "Is that what people do? Feed each other up?" The 'P' emphasized with a pop. 

  "It's what friends do. People who care about you: Friends, families, people you're 'involved' with." John cast a serious glance at his flatmate, "Are you involved with anyone?" 

  _Oh. My. God_. 

  John's eyes popped at the realization at the words that poured from his mouth. _Did I just ask Sherlock bloody Holmes if he was single?_ John's hands began to shake and his eyes quickly went to the glass set in front of him. 

   _Wine. It was the wine - must have been!_

  He reached for the glass, mouth suddenly feeling scratchy and dry. Taking a worrying glance up through his lashes, he spotted a slight blush on the cheeks of his colleague. John was about to apologize for being out of line when a response, so quiet - just above a whisper - came from across the table. 

  "No."

  John sucked in a breath, choking on his wine and coughed violently before recovering and patting his mouth roughly with the serviette. He felt his flat mates eyes on his face and he looked up to match their gaze; cheeks blushed a bright red. John cleared his throat, "J-just like me then...u-unattached. G-good. That's good." 

  Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look and his eyes wandered the doctors face, as if looking for something. It was cut short unfortunately, when the waiter - Peter was it? - returned to whisper something in Sherlock's ear. A little fire rose in John's belly and he couldn't for the life of figure out whatever for. It was an odd feeling, one he hadn't felt in a very long time. Yet, as he continued to stare at the lips moving closely (too close for his liking) to Sherlocks ear, he couldn't help the need to adjust himself more upright in his chair, puffing his chest subconsciously. 

  With a nod to the waiter and a slim smile to John, Sherlock leaned in closer toward the table, his conversation now turned to the doctor. "John if you would excuse me for a moment."

  John was a little flustered and jealous but quickly tried to hide it almost immediately with a fake friendly smile and nod of acceptance. "Of course."

  Sherlock rose from his chair and left to the front of the restaurant with Peter. Sitting at the table alone with and empty plate and a half empty glass of vintage wine felt quite lonely, now that there was an empty chair across from him. John had never felt this way before - having feeling like this so quickly - and he also never feared his image and reputation being destroyed either. He knew deep inside these feelings were wrong and could cause trouble, but yet he couldn't help the fact that he was feeling something.... _something._... for this man. 

  All of that was lost when he heard a gentle clearing of a throat from the stage. Catching his eye almost instantly, Sherlock was positioned atop it with a violin rested under his chin and the bow delicately held in the other. John couldn't believe his eyes at the way the light caught him; his body behind softly outlined and face shaped with such precision. A breath caught in John's throat when he began to play. It was beautiful. So beautiful that John couldn't recall the last time a tear formed in his eye at the sound of an instrument, or the sight of a wonderful man, for that matter. 

  The melody was sweet but also yearning as if portraying a journey through emotions. John just sat in awe, all form of jealously and ill-temper just flushed from his body and replaced with warmth. When the music ended he got up from his chair and joined the applause of people while the dark haired man bowed respectfully. John almost instantly caught Sherlocks eye and they stared at each other for several moments through the crowd of people before he removed himself from the stage and trekked toward their table. John noted the change of pace in Sherlock's stride and he quickly settled himself back in his chair. 

  "Sherlock that was fantastic! Amazing! I knew you could play, but not like that."

  A fond grin appeared on the man's face when he reached the table. "I welcome the complement John, however, we have more pressing matters to attend to." 

  John arched an eyebrow, "What d'you mean?"

  Sherlock pressed John in a particular direction with his eyes and John followed it without protest. Sitting in the corner of the room was a very well dressed gentleman who was writing furiously in a brown notebook. 

  "The game, John, is on!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift on my birthday for you lovely people :)
> 
> Repeating Sherlock like a boss: "The game, John, is on!" ohhhhhhhh yeaaaaaaaa ;D
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> New chapter up next Wednesday! (hopefully)


	12. An Invitiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for not posting these past 2 weeks, I have been incredibly busy with exams and filming projects. I am officially on winter break now so I will post to my usual schedule. Another note: I will be getting my wisdom teeth removed on Tuesday so I will try to get another chapter out before then to make up for Wednesday's. :) Thank you all for your patience <3
> 
> Back to the story!

 

It was a month since that night at The Landmark, after Sherlock spotted a chief editor to The Strand, it struck John as odd that such a sight was unusual. But then again....this was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about. 

Jonathan Doe held quite a position at The Strand Magazine - although his name to many was not one that stood out or was known very well. The majority of people who did know him, however, were those who used and needed the paper for as much publicity as possible. Of course John was one of them.

Upon running into the name this time on the front of the paper was a sight to behold and once Sherlock trudged through the room in a black waistcoat and dress pants, long silk robe draped over both shoulders, John had to hold back throwing the paper in his direction. It was an easy enough deduction for the detective to make on his part when the words, "Finally made it on the front cover, did he?", came from his mouth. 

"And how in God's name did you know that without even bother to look at the paper this morning?"

"Easy enough, John" he flicked his hand at the other man without even sparing a glance. When there was no response from the doctor, Sherlock sighed and flopped down on the leather couch, wrapping the robe tighter around himself. "The front cover of The Strand Magazine clearly states - if not shows - enough, wouldn't you say?"

John flipped the paper in his hands to be greeted with the disheveled face of Jonathan Doe with a prisoner number splayed on the front of a card.  "I'm waiting for it." John replied with a smirk.

"What do you mean?" 

" _Elementary, John. Do be more observant_!" He joked, attempting to mimic the dry tone he so often heard. 

Sherlocks face was that of utter annoyance and shock, mouth slightly agape. _Was he...offended_? Before he knew it, John was already apologizing profusely; constantly trying to cover up his misreading and obliviousness to his companions sensitiveness.

As if on cue, Sherlock sprawled further into the couch, putting his legs up and turning so his back was facing John. 

"Tea?"

No response.

"Biscuits?" 

The robe was pulled tighter around the lithe frame. 

John gave up. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had given up. What has his world come to. _Oh right, Sherlock Holmes_.

"I'm going for a walk." He sighed and reached for his cane, hoisting himself up and grabbing his jacket. When he reached the door of the flat, he turned to his colleague and frowned at the blob of flesh rooted in the sofa. "I'm sorry..." he whispered and went down the stairs, counting each knock as the butt of the cane collided with the hardwood. 

~

It wasn't odd for John to pop in on Mike when he was working, odd enough he also had to remind himself to apologize for the happenings that occurred the last time he was looking for work. When the bell chimed above the door to notify of his arrival, Molly was right away all smiles and cheerful greetings.

"Hello, John!"

"Molly, how are you this fine morning?" 

"Wonderful!"

John chuckled and walked up to the desk, leaning against it with one arm, "And what has happened this exact day to make it a good one?"

Unable to contain her excitement she held up an opened envelope with a note folded within. "An invitation?" John voiced and raised a brow with a grin.

"Not just any invitation! Take a look!" she held it out toward him and scooted her chair closer into the table to witness his expression.

John reached for it and leaned his cane on the desk to open it with both hands. Pulling out the small note, he flipped it to read the delicate cursive. "A banquet?" 

"You seem surprised," Molly's grin faltered and her brows knit on her kind face, "did you not get one?"

"Get one?" John subconsciously flipped the note to see the empty blank back to flip it to the front again, "Nope."

"Oh..."

He smiled at her and slid it across the desk, "No need to fret, Molly, I bet mines in the post. What's the special occasion anyway?"

"Didn't you read it silly?" A small grin played on her lips as she tucked it back away in her purse before continuing, "Its the annual musician banquet. You know, to bring local musicians together for a feast and trade their secrets!" 

John laughed and reached for his cane, "Trust me, we don't have any. Speaking of which, how'd you get the invitation?"

"Oh John that was the exciting bit! Guess who I'm going with!"

John pulled a face as if to ponder further at her question. After a while he shrugged with a grin, "No idea, who?"

"Jim Moriarty!"

John froze, eyes widening and glued to her face. "J-Jim Moriarty?"

"Yes!" She squealed and then quickly hid her mouth with her hand, cheeks burning like fire. "My apologies, I didn't mean to do that." 

"No need to excuse yourself in front of me, Molly. You are clearly excited and it's lovely to see you so happy." John smiled fondly at her while trying to calm down from the news of Moriarty. 

Footsteps from down the hallway beside them brought him back to his senses and he turned to see the familiar figure of his old friend. 

"John!" Mike called and outreached a hand for a shake.

"Mike, I owe you an apology from our last meeting." John recited with remorse. 

"Nonsense, you were stressed and I pushed the boundary. All is forgiven and forgotten." he added with a wink and stretched an arm to the hallway, "Please, let us catch up in my office."

John smiled at Molly before following behind.

~

"D'ya hear the news about Doe?" Mike started once the door closed behind him.

"Couldn't miss it."

"Your flatmates name was in the post, you were aware of that, yes?" 

John sunk down in the chair opposite of Mike's spot at the desk and rested his cap down on it, "Yes" he hummed in response.

Mike smirked and offered John a tumbler of brandy, "Quite an influence on you, hasn't he?"

"Oh Mike don't be absurd, it's only been two months." 

"Two months and he's already got you running around London making appearances at venues and hunting down killers." He added, tapping down on Johnathan's face that mocked the cover of the issue. 

"Jonathan isn't a _killer_ , he was involved in the sending of the letters in which Merchant received, he was merely a conspirator."

"Merely." Mike echoed with a grin.

"What?"

"You've changed, is all. Haven't seen you this content about life since back from the war, John. He's done you wonders."

John blushed but went quickly about hiding it with a long sip from the glass. "Trust me Mike, nothing's changed, I've still got the pain in my leg and a kink in my shoulder." 

"Give your body time to heal, Watson. C'mon, even a grumpy doctor such as yourself knows how the body works." 

John laughed and then thanked Mike for the chat and the alcohol before setting back toward his home. Taking a deep breath from the chilly London air, John hoped that he was ready to face the sulking mass which waited for him. 

~

When John returned home the sound of a violin was quite prominent from upstairs. 

"Oh Dr. Watson, thank goodness you're home!"

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"He's been in a sulk for hours; either playing the violin or blowing up another vial from doing whatever he gets up to. Sort him out, would you?" 

"Actually I might be the cause of this behaviour to tell the truth."

"But he could never be mad at you for long. Just get up there before he tries something to my wall again." 

John nodded and removed his cap slowly walking up the steps to hear the playing stop for a short moment and then start back up again with a screech. When John managed to reach the top of the steps the door was already open and the man of the hour was positioned at the window, working on a piece of music. Of course the doctor had known better than to bother the detective when he was in one of his _moods_ , so instead he went straight the the kitchen and filled the kettle with water for tea. By the time he poured the water into two cups and measured out the right amount of milk and sugar in each; setting them on a tray and balanced it with one hand to their sitting room, Sherlock had sat himself at their table, reading through several stacks of notes. 

John instinctively set the tray down opposite him and reached to place a cup out in front. Sherlock looked up at him with a blank expression and went back to his pile of papers. "Is this a form of olive branch, doctor?"

John cleared his throat and sat down, twiddling his fingers on the table. "I'm sorry. I misread the situation and I did not mean to offend you in any way." 

"It takes more than ones idiocy to offend _me_ , doctor."

John snorted and smiled at his colleague from across the table and Sherlock's lips formed a grin as he reached for his cup and took a sip of tea. "Ah!" Sherlock slid a small envelope across the table and eyed his companion as John opened it and read its contents, eyes widening. 

"The musicians banquet! I-I know this! Molly received an invitation as well." 

"Yes, yes, and it is quite an observation, John, but what else can you tell me of this invitation?"

John cast an inquisitive glance before looking more closely at the note. Scanning it over several times, his eyes stopped abruptly and mouth dropped at the very small cursive letter he noted at the bottom right corner of the invitation.

_\- M_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	13. A Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter as promised <3
> 
> & some angst. I'm sorry.

"T-that's the M!" John looked to Sherlock with the same widened eyes and look of pure shock. 

A smirk played on the detectives face as he rested his chin on his hands, "Continue"

"S-Sherlock t-the M! The same M from the note found on Merchant!"

"And....."

John's mouth shut and his brow rose, "And?"

" _And_ what can we deduce from this?" Sherlock edged on.

"That this is not your concern, nor is this a case to involve yourselves in." A voice from behind startled John who spilt a little tea from his cup. 

Sherlock groaned and tipped his head back, sliding down into his chair. 

"Mycroft, haven't you got something better to do like, I don't know, eat a _cake_?"

"Mycro-"

"Oh little brother, isn't this childhood spar a little passé for a man of your age and stature?"

"Oh please, tell someone who cares." Sherlock sighed, flapping a hand at the other man.

Mycroft turned to face the gaping doctor with a tight smile, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance again, Captain Watson. I see that your face has healed since our last meeting." 

John's fists clenched tightly around his cup and Sherlock perked up at his name,"That was you?" he spat.

"Of course it wasn't me, the good doctor did that to himself."

Sherlock eyed John but then went back to glaring at Mycroft, "Not without good reason I-"

"Mycroft, I would say the pleasure is mine to this fine meeting, but I must admit that this is way beyond pleasure more like.... _torture_?"

A snort from the man across the table had John fighting off a pleased grin as he threw daggers from his eyes. Mycroft smiled tightly "Charmed," he added before turning to his brother, "It has come to my attention that a certain _someone_ has invested himself in a particular case involving that of higher societal standings then himself." 

"Oh John, are you running around getting into fights with government officials again?" Sherlock grinned.

John smiled and then reflexively stood up from his seat and wandered between Sherlock when Mycroft took a step forward. "Always, you know a cane does work wonders when wanting to bash someone's head in."

"Ugh, would you both please stop going at it and listen to what I've come to say?"

"No." Both John and Sherlock voiced in unison.

"I mean it Sherlock, stay out of things that do not concern you, or you might end up in more trouble then you already are."

"What do you mean?" Asked John and Mycroft turned to head out whence he came.

"Heed my warnings gentlemen. Evening, brother mine, Captain."  

~

"Brothers!?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope in the kitchen to John who was leaning against the partition. "Hm?"

"You and him....brothers."

Sherlock leaned back in his stool and eyed John with knit brows, "I though that was quite obvious..."

"Obvious? Really, Sherlock? I'm supposed to _know_  that the red headed man that bribed me with money to get information of you, and then walks into this flat steering you away from this case is your brother."

There was a pause and Sherlock just nodded in his seat. 

"Christ, Sherlock." John massaged his temples fiercely and proceeded to the bathroom, giving up once again to deal with the difficult man. 

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called from the kitchen.

"To the restroom! I need to change my bandages." John mumbled and opened up the small cabinet above the sink to pull out some ointment and more wrappings. When he went to sit on the toilet seat to roll his pants up, he noticed a figure at the doorway.

"Are you in need of assistance?"

There was silence from both men and John was not sure whether it was the right time to swallow, let alone blink. He knew better than to encourage such behaviour that was seen as indecent, but it was the way that Sherlock acted around him and made him feel wanted which caused John to need and crave more. Heart hammering in his chest, his mouth started to move and process words, "N-no, I-its fine I've done this plenty times on my own."

Sherlock stayed quiet for a minute, watching him - examining him - before he nodded, "As you wish." he turned around at the door and proceeded to leave.

John couldn't take it anymore, couldn't repress his emotions and feelings after living in close proximity to the man who left him breathless and speechless at his own deductions. Clearly Sherlock would have been able to deduce it by now, the quickened pace and breaths from his chest to his reddened face, _John Hamish Watson_ was having feelings for his colleague and flatmate. 

"Wait!" He called, unable to recognize his voice over the pounding heart in his ears.

He heard footsteps approach the doorway once again and there Sherlock stood, a questioning expression on his face.

"My shoulder. I need help with my shoulder."

Sherlock nodded and rolled up the sleeves to his dress shirt before hovering over John, who was still seated on the toilet. "I may not have in my presence that of a degree in any medical field, but I do believe one must remove their shirt in order to treat a healing shoulder wound."

John let out a choked out laugh before swallowing hard and undoing the buttons to his waistcoat and then starting on his shirt. He still couldn't get over the way in which Sherlock would offer to help him in certain situations. Most of the time the detective was like stone and John was made to mostly fend for himself when it came to the matters of dealing with others. But with John, it felt as if he was an exception to the rule.

Feeling the cool air rest on his chest caused John to shake before he felt the warm pressure of a hand graze over the bandages, unwrapping his left shoulder. "How is it coming along?" Sherlock asked, clearly trying to cover up the tension and awkwardness that built up in the small confines of the room. 

"I-it will most likely scar." 

There was a hum in reply and John just watched the elegant hands expose the ugly wound that marked his body. 

"Fascinating." He heard and turned his head to be poked with several dark stray curls. John couldn't help but take a breath of the sweet smells that radiated off the musician. _Vanilla, smoke, and a hint of mint._

The detective froze and John mentally kicked himself at finally noticing the proximity of their faces. Sherlock turned his head and their eyes instantly locked on to each other. John's breath hitched in his chest and he could have sworn his companion stopped breathing entirely. It was almost as if a magnet took hold of his lips and he slowly gravitated to the other man's mouth. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath before the doctors mouth crashed into his own. It was like a building fire that started on his lips and trailed all the way to his stomach and John couldn't help bury his hands in the nest of curls to deepen the kiss. 

Oh how he needed this, how he _craved_ this form of acceptance and affection from the man he had adored and longed to touch after their first meeting. Sherlock was not like any other person he had known, sure John had had relationships with both women and men in the past - for which he covered up - but none had been like the consulting detective. Intelligent, brave, and difficult; a trait in which John had come to love. But this was wrong, this was all wrong.

Just as fast as the fire hit him, anxiety rooted itself in his mind and he pulled away, earning a gasp from the other man. "What's wrong?" The deep baritone voice cut through his thoughts.

"I-I can't..." 

"What do you mean?"

"I can't....I can't do this...." John responded, voice just above a whisper and yet full of regret and pain. 

Sherlock eyed him for several seconds - face unreadable but yet a hint of sadness marked on it - before he straightened up and fled from the room without a word, slamming his bedroom door shut. John jumped at the sound and then got up to close the bathroom door and his body felt limbless and numb as he sank down to the tiled floor. 

Tears welled up and stung his eyes while his body shook with a pain that had built up in himself over many weeks and months. His shoulder began to throb, now being exposed to the air, but he couldn't have cared less. He felt like dirt, like mud that was trampled down by a thousand horse hooves and he wept like a child. 

John couldn't deal with his past again, couldn't face the pain and backlash all over.

_I can't make the same mistakes again. I can't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	14. Three Pips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a fantastic holiday and enjoyed your celebrations, whatever you celebrate :) 
> 
> Season 4 is just days away, how's everyone faring? Tbh, I'm dying by all this content they have given us these past couple days. Super excited but hey, enjoy another chapter while you wait <3 
> 
> Thank you all for the Kudos <3 ^-^

John managed to compose himself enough to get back to the toilet seat and examine his leg. The flesh around the bullet wound had healed fully and his thigh bore a small scar as proof. He decided to leave it un-bandaged this time and instead, hoisted himself to the sink mirror to get a better look at his shoulder. It indeed was a sight to behold as this star splayed scar was a lot larger and uglier than the other. John felt tears well in his eyes once again and he rubbed his eyes with one hand while the other leveraged himself on the porcelain sink. He felt his knees give way and instead of grabbing for his cane, John applied more pressure to his bad leg in an attempt to stand taller and straight. He had to do this for himself. To not give up. 

The phone from the sitting room went off and John nearly lost his balance on the sink. He went to grab for his cane but as soon as his index finger tapped at the handle, it slipped and crashed to the tiled floor.

"Bullocks." He cursed and hopped over to the door,  choosing to not even bother Sherlock who he knew was just a door away; his bedroom linked to the bathroom by misted glass.

John attempted a hop to the hallway door and found himself successful, although it was quite tedious a journey. The phone continued to chime on their sitting room table like the person on the other line refused to give up, but John alone was grateful for that as it offered him more time to maneuver his body. He was only a few steps away when the door to his flatmates bedroom flung open and the wild detective marched straight to the table lifting up the ear and mouth piece. "What." Sherlock barked as John remained awkwardly situated on one leg.

A minute passed by and the deceive remained silent on the line. John looked on with puzzlement and then watched the other man's face remain still - like a mask. He frowned when the telephone was put back in its place and Sherlock began rummaging through papers on the table. 

"What was that about?" John asked cautiously, still feeling anxious and uncomfortable from the happenings that had just transpired. There was just the sound of paper shuffles that filled the flat and Sherlock remained silent. 

_Not only botched a relation up, but I've botched a friendship too. If it ever amounted to that..._

John sighed and decided to go and retrieve his cane from the restroom floor as his balance on one leg was not too keen for long periods of time. When he returned, with his shirt and waistcoat wrapped around him and buttoned up, John decided to leave Sherlock be for a while and sat in his usual chair reaching for the morning paper that displayed Doe's face. He read the paper fully this time - instead of skimming through it as he did earlier - ever so often letting an eye wander to the mess of curls flipping through and throwing papers aside. 

"Four pips." 

The baritone voice caught John by surprise, "Excuse me?"

There was a sigh. "On the phone. Four pips," The man's voice dropped lower as a whisper, "but what could it mean...."

"And why now?" John hummed and he drifted over the current page he read until his eyes landed on a familiar face. ' _William 'Bill' Murray, veteran Northumberland Fusilier found dead, age 43'_. John's mouth went dry and his stomach churned; eyes viciously scanning the small paragraph before him. "Sherlo-"

The phone began to ring making John jump in his chair, and Sherlock grabbed it quickly while remaining silent. John watched him with concern as he hung up the phone after several minutes. 

"Three, John. Three pips." 

~

"Greg please this is urgent, my comrade has just been found murdered this morning!"

Lestrade handed off some papers to his secretary and headed toward his office; doctor and consulting detective following behind. "Look John, I'm sorry but it's not our division. Murray was murdered outside of our-"

"Not your division? For Christ sake, Greg!" John protested as the door to the DI's office was held open and the men walked through. 

"John I-"

"There were four pips."

"Wha?" Lestrade turned around once he reached his desk.

"It's a message, Lestrade! Four pips and then three after the news of William Murray." Sherlock continued.

"Meaning?" Lestrade asked, not following.

"The fourth must have been Merchant, after his death which is similar to that of Murray - beheaded after they were murdered." 

"But we don't know that, you haven't even been to the scene yet, Sherlock." 

John piped up, "Are you saying these two murders are connected somehow?" 

"Done by the same pers-" Sherlock paused, eyes focusing no where in particular, "Of course...." he hummed and paced the office with his hands rested at the side of his face in concentration. Both John and Greg watched him silently until the musicians head shot up and eyes widened, "Oh! That's it! Oh, he's clever. Very, _very_ clever indeed." 

"Who's clever?" John asked, turning to Greg who just shrugged in confusion.

"The killer, John! He plans to attack again, can't you see?! It's a list, he's taking them out one by one...but when...and who's next. Oh this is exciting!"

The doctor cleared his throat and Sherlock turned to face him with an arched brow. 

"Bit not good right now." John mumbled and paled at the hardened look he received from his flatmate. 

_Still annoyed at me I suppose._

"Lestrade, who's covering Murray?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the previous comment completely.

"Dimmock." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in agitation and proceeded to the door, "I suggest you give him a ring then, he's going to be receiving a visit." 

"Holmes for God's sake-"

The door shut before Greg could finish and he turned to John, pinching the bridge of his nose followed by a sigh of defeat, "Well, you better go after him." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter next week after the 'East Wind' graces us :D 
> 
> "Catch. You. Later." ;) 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	15. Kill Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize on the lateness of this chapter, life's been a roller coaster these past couple weeks and unpredictable to say the least. I don't know if the updating every Wednesday will remain, I might have to push it back to every Thursday just because my college schedule has changed. 
> 
> Without further ado, heres the next chapter! (Will try to get another out for you guys this weekend if I have time!)

The cab ride was an uncomfortable ordeal and awkward for the most part. John sat in complete silence risking several glances at Sherlock who remained turned toward to car window. He cleared his throat, "So what do you plan on finding at the crime scene?" 

There were several seconds of silence, "Absolutely no idea." Sherlock hummed, eyes still fixed on the outside world. 

John tried a tight smile and a quick nod in response, knowing quite well that the gesture could not be seen. 

~

When arriving at the small cottage-esque house outside central London, the environment itself loathed to match the quaint exterior that acted as a decorated set to the 'tragic play' which took place. John's stomach turned but was quickly snapped from his thoughts at a voice calling from the side garden, "My, my its Sherlock Holmes. Given up music already now that you're running to and fro with a retired soldier at your beck and call? Must've been a while since I seen your name in the papers, or do you plan on playing at the banquet?"

"Dimmock." Sherlock replied flatly and proceeded to the front door of the cottage; John trailing slowly behind.  

"Hey now just wait a min-" before Dimmock could finish his thought, Sherlock was already through the door and pulling out his magnifying glass. John stepped over the threshold and took in the narrow but quaint hallway, decorated with several paintings and lit up beautifully by the windows framing the door. Following his colleague into the next room, John's breath caught in his throat and his body felt completely numb. 

Sprawled on the floor atop a pool of blood lay the body of Bill Murray, a fellow comrade and friend. His head was detached - just like Merchant's had been - and as he stepped closer and just slightly behind Sherlock, he caught a glimpse of a yellow page sticking out of his front dress jacket pocket. 

It felt as if he had just walked out of the pub after a few pints because his legs started to shake and his head began throbbing. Putting most of his weight on his cane, John went to the closest kitchen wall and leaned against it; droplets of sweat forming on his brow as his breath began to falter. Around him voices began to grow distant and the figure of Sherlock blurred before his eyes as the man rapidly examined every inch of the room. It was the voice of who he believed was Inspector Dimmock that cut through the white noise and a solid grab to his arm that was the last thing he remembered before everything went black. 

~

_"I'm shocked, you know." A light airy voice with a forced German accent reverberated around him. There was a chuckle that came right after, deeper and more robust._

_Opening his eyes, there was complete darkness and the cloth covering his eyes was distorting. He remembered the feeling of the wound in his shoulder and the texture of the crusted and drying blood on his face. Then came the unforgettable feeling of the butt of a rifle breaking his nose and the endless trails of blood running past his lips._

_"I don't know what you are talking about! I don't have it!" A familiar voice - Sholto._

_"That's not what your little friend Billy said before I let him go."_

_The other man, with the deeper voice and thick German accent mumbled something to his 'boss' and footsteps started to approach him. John tried to free his bound hands that were tied behind him to a chair of some kind as cruel laughter mocked his struggle._

_"I wonder if your friend here knows" a leather gloved hand pressed itself against his face and turned his cheek from side to side. "Sebby, what did I say about 'over-doing'? It's rude."_

_"Leave him alone!" Sholto piped up and spat on the floor; John assumed it was blood that hit the dirt with a weak splatter._

_"Oh look Seb, seems to be we hit a little weak spot in our Commander." The airy voice chimed, the sound of a smile playing through his choppy and inconsistent accent._

_Light footsteps moved over to the location of Sholto while harder and stronger ones positioned themselves right in front of John. John held his breath and could only prepare for the worst. He was in a defenceless position and clearly in the middle of a situation he rather not be in. That's when he couldn't breathe. Fingers dug into the flesh of his neck and his throat contracted at the pressure. It was then he realized the gag in his mouth and he choked as the fabric trailed itself to the back of his throat._

_John didn't hear much other than the piercing white noise in his ears and the feeling of dying so helplessly outside of where his life was meant to end; out on the field of battle. This was it. This was the end._

~

"He's breathing again!" A voice called out. 

John felt weak and lifeless, his arms felt like gelatine, and his eyes as heavy as rocks. He could have sworn he was laying on tiled ground, but he couldn't be sure. There were several hands on him then, frantically going from his face to his chest and then back again. He tried to cry out, to yell out 'surrender' but it was hopeless. He was now left - _now ready_ \- to die. 

"If your going to kill me...." his voice raspy and dry, heart beating rapidly in his chest "do it now... and let it be quick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	16. Time to Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter as promised <3
> 
> A little fluff for whatever happens tonight in the season finale of Sherlock.
> 
> (Its a shorter chapter, so my apologies for that >.< )

John woke up to an unfamiliar environment with a smell that was, however, quite familiar; consisting of a bit of honey. It took him a minute to register that it was a bed in fact he was lying on and was stripped down to his white cotton undershirt. His head ached and he groaned in an attempt to hoist himself and lean against the headboard of the bed he was currently occupying. Footsteps from the doorway beside him made him snap his head to the figure that hovered there silently. John instinctively reached under the pillow to search for his Browning but was faced with the cruel reality that this was, indeed, not his room. 

"W-where am I?" He rasped, voice dry and coarse.

The figure remained positioned at the door before taking a step into the dim light of the room. John took a breath and then cleared his throat, turning his head away in embarrassment.

"Sherlock..."

"You are home. Back in Baker Street and safe." 

John closed his eyes and nodded weakly before opening them and turning back to his colleague. It took him a second to realize that Sherlock had roamed closer to the bed and now stood almost a foot away; a small bowl of water and white cloth draped over the side in his hands.  

"W-what happened...?" He asked before memory caught up to him and his breath picked up along with his heartbeat, "Oh no...Murray, what happened with Murray?" John went to pull the sheets over his legs and rush out of bed when he felt a steadying pressure on his right arm, keeping him in place. 

"John, you passed out at the cottage. You actually stopped breathing..." there was a hitch in Sherlock's voice that made John pause. "With Dimmock's help we were able to bring you back here. Do you remember anything that happened?" Sherlock asked calmly, and placed the bowl down on the end table beside the bed with his free hand. 

John shook his head violently and tears began to well in his eyes, blurring his vision. He was mad, frustrated even, that he was forced to live with this burden. The war gave him many things: a title, a feeling of purpose and duty. Yet there were a great many more things the war had gifted him that he despised. Every single day of his life he would remember. Remember the faces of those he saw who were slaughtered and torn apart from their families for an eternity, not only from their side, but the side of the ' _enemy_ ', the ones who they were assigned to destroy. He wore these memories as scars on his body and carried them along as nightmares in his mind. Tainted forever. 

Warm droplets of tears ran down his cheeks at the thought of his comrades and seeing the body of an old friend dismembered and mangled. He took a shaky breath and the strong scent of smoke, mint and just  _Sherlock_ , drifted through his nostrils and he felt a weight wrap itself around him. Arms pulled him into a warm embrace where he heard a steady and calming beating heart in his ears. A gentle weight on his head solidified the feeling and he drifted into a state of pure warmth and comfort.

The two men stayed like that, in each other's arms, for what seemed like hours until Sherlock gently pushed back and cradled John's face in his hands. Their eyes met and John could not recall ever feeling a sense of security and grounding from another human being. 

With one hand cupping John's face and gently using his thumb to stroke his cheek, Sherlock turned to the bowl beside him on the nightstand and wrung out the small cloth, the best of his ability with one hand, and carefully began to wipe John's face; the cool water gracing the worn skin with comfort. 

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes at the sensation of being cared for. For so long he had always been the caretaker, never feeling the need to burden others with his issues or wounds. He was a doctor, a born, selfless human being. Now he felt as a patient....or something greater...

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, slowly opening his eyes to be met with the perfect stare of his companion. 

John had to let go. To allow himself to care and be cared for. To cross out the events of love in his past to make room for new beginnings and hopefully a new start. Of course he was scared, of course he was worried, but that thought alone excited him, just as it had all those months and years ago. He had to learn to love and not to fear the world around him.

_It is what it is._

John couldn't read the expression on the other man's face - as usual - and instead craned his head and bore his gaze into the cream coloured silk sheets consuming him. Regret burrowing itself within. 

A light pressure on his chin brought his gaze back and a warm, chaste press of lips to his own flooded his mind and left it blank. He didn't even realize his eyes were closed until he opened them and was graced with a light blush and a small and kind smile. 

"I forgive you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter, with everything thats been going on in regards to the series I just wanted to do a cute little piece as a way for others to relax and hopefully calm down either before watching the episode, or after watching it :) 
> 
> (Whatever happens, I will always believe in Johnlock) haha. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated. <3


	17. Give Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Sorry for the wait :) 
> 
> (This chapter gave me some troubles because I was - and still am - trying to plan out the full story as I go.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock made sure John didn't exert himself several days after the _incident_ took place. With both the news of Bill Murray and the approaching banquet that was being held next month, it was needed for John to stay in the confines of 221B for a while. Easier said than done. 

"John...John! Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, looking up briefly from his recent composition still in the works to notice the army doctor pulling on his long brown woollen coat. 

"To the shops, we need some things." 

Sherlock strolled over; eyes flying over John's body collecting information and data of sorts. "How are you feeling?" He asked, tone of voice somewhat unclear.

"Better, a lot better actually."

There was a hum of reply and Sherlock swept in placing a sweet and light kiss on John's cheek before turning around and walking back to the window, grabbing his violin. "Don't be out too long." 

John was a little gobsmacked at the soft gesture, still not used to the whole ordeal and unsure as to where exactly the two of them stand. "Sherlock" he chuckled, "that was indecent."

"In my own home, under my own roof for which I pay monthly? I shall be free to do as I wish. Besides," his pen froze of the paper, glancing over at John, a playful smirk drawn on his lips "when did you start caring about decency, Dr. Watson." 

John pulled a fake gasp and feigned taken aback, "I beg your pardon, sir."

"It's quite well that Mrs. Hudson did not deliver us tea that one morning in which you decided to walk the flat in only your dressing gown. How long ago was that.....almost eight weeks..?" Sherlock's lips puckered and he tapped the pen against his chin lightly before he sent a cheeky but flirtatious grin the other man's way. "Though I do admit...the sight was quite _distracting_..."

The doctor snorted, "How do you remember an incident that long ago?"

"Obvious, John. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course... well, i'll be back in a few." John remarked sending him a fond smile that was returned, and left the flat. He wasn't even two blocks down from 221B when he heard an engine pull up beside him and a window being cranked.

"Dr. Watson."

~

"What is it now?" John grumbled, stepping into the sleek automobile and resting his cane on the seat space beside him. 

The car pulled back on the road and the engine hummed through the silence. Mycroft adjusted his jacket and narrowed his eyes. "I see that you and my brother are going against my warnings."

John sighed and rolled his eyes at the older man, "Seriously, Mycroft, you think that just because you run the government-"

"-Hold a minor position..."

"-RUN the government, that you can stop the working mind of your brother."

Mycroft fell silent, eyes still remained bore into John with a hint of disdain. "Dr. Watson, may I remind you that this whole situation is not a _game_."

"Your brother seems to think it is."

"Yes, well we know his attention span is that of a fly, but as I will repeat, this ordeal is unsafe and unwise for you both to pursue..."

John shot him a dirty look and faced him in his seat.

"However.." Mycroft carried on, "knowing both my brother's clockwork brain and your hungering need for an adrenaline fix."

"Excuse me?"

"...I can do nothing to stop you."

John paused. His brows knit together and mouth agape. _He's letting it go...?_   "You- you're going to leave us be..."

Mycroft looked slightly vexed at the comment, "Of course. However much I am against it, there's no stopping you two. Which is why I am giving you this" Reaching into his front suit pocket, Mycroft pulled out a white pamphlet and handed it to John. 

It took a moment to realize what the pamphlet actually said but as it fully processed, John seized up; right hand reflexively tensing. "I-I haven't played in a long time...." 

"Nonsense Captain, you visited Mrs. Hudson's studio just two weeks past-"

"No!" John's voice was rising, fear seeming to grip on his mind and throughout his body. "Y-you don't understand....I haven't played in front of a crowd s-since before the war...."

~

_John's rotation were positioned in for their break shift, the bunker was tight, reeked of mould and damp clothing, and was poorly lit by only several lanterns. One general - Douglas was his name - was walking around the groups of men huddled together and passing letters, papers, and acquiring pens and paper for some of the men._

_"Six minutes till' swap boys! Get your letters done and finish your readings!"_

_John wasted no time ripping into a medium size parcel that contained two letters; one from Stamford and the other from his sister. Reading his sisters first, John penned a simple letter telling her of the horrendous voyage to and within the battlefield. Writing her address in ink and moving to Stamford's caused him to pause. Within the medium sized envelope there were two piece of paper, one white parchment with scrawl while the other looked to be that of a newspaper article._

_Scanning the title made him frown as he proceeded to read the following paragraph:_

 

ASPIRING PIANIST'S DAYS ARE OVER

 

_John Watson, recent and aspiring pianist performed at his largest venue to beat; the Marquet._

_In regards to the irony of his biggest venue being one of the smallest restaurants located outside _

_of Eastern London,_ _it just goes to show how long his musical career would have lasted. Not very long._

_As some older_ _enthusiasts and 'fans' of Watson would disagree, his style is over-done and not original._

_Overall, he's_ _just plain awful._

_To both Dew and Richard, who commented on the man's hidden talent and humble beginning, they_

_should start worrying about their future career - because it won't be the paper! It was a blessing that_

_Watson was shipped out to serve our King and country last week, maybe his 'talents' will be used into_

_ deafening the Germans.  _

 

_\- Article Written By: Jim Moriarty_

 

_John was shaking, his whole body betraying him and he felt like flying back to London to rip a new one out of the snake that was Jim Moriarty. Mike's letter was short, brief and words that tried to tone down the harshness of the article. Mike told him to ignore, John did anything but._

_That was the way of the industry, to deal with the nonsense and ill words that spewed from the end of a writers pen._

_Is it really that bad....am I really that bad...._

_Many hours later after the groups swapped several times, John sat down in the mud and read over Moriarty's article again. Doubt swept through him and for the first time he was actually second guessing himself._

_Maybe....maybe he's right...._

~

"You are out of practise is all, once you get on that stage and perform at the banquet Dr. Watson it will be old hat."

John shook his head, sitting the pamphlet down on the car seat space between them. "I cannot perform Mycroft!"

"You will and you must! You both wanted to involve yourself in this problem, now you must deal with it!" 

"What does me performing even have to do with the murders, or prevent them?!"

"All in due time, Doctor. All in due time..." 

The car slowed down to a stop and John took the opportunity to escape the close confines. Grabbing his cane, he opened the door quickly and bolted out, shutting the door behind and angrily walking down the walkway in the opposite direction. Realizing after turning down a corner, he didn't quite catch the last of what the older Holmes had to say. 

Heading back to the flat was his goal, he was done. John decided later on to pick up what they needed from the shops - better to go home and avoid telling Sherlock, rather than being gun down by questions by arriving home empty handed from his original objective. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will probably lose a schedule as my work week is unpredictable. I WILL be continuing to upload but it may be sporadically (ie. once every week/once every two weeks/or maybe two chapters in one week!). Sorry for this :/ I hate having to do this but: "it is what it is."
> 
> <3 you all for the Kudos and comments I really appreciate you all and you encourage me to continue writing!
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	18. The Man I Want To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeee happy Sunday! 
> 
> New chapter to enjoy :3 (bit angsty) 
> 
> Disclaimer: Some abuse in this chapter, just a warning.

"Odd for you to be coming in here doing the shopping, Dr. Watson. Shouldn't a stand up man like yourself or Mr.Holmes hire a housekeeper? Or what about Mrs. Hudson running your homely errands!" 

John fished out several pounds out of his front pocket, dropping them into the counter and reaching for the paper bag stuffed with food. "I've told you before, Mr. Anderson, I've been scolded by the woman in which she always replies 'not your housekeeper'" John chuckled. 

"A woman her age would still be quite capable to do it though sir, if I may ask, the woman did have children, did she not? She would be prone to be a mother hen."

John shuffled the bag in his hand, leaning into his cane. "You know what, Anderson, that is one  of the many mysteries I have yet to solve of our dear landlady." 

Both men let out a hearty laugh as Anderson fed the till. Watching the clerk perform the duty held his attention and he totally disregarded the other man's change of facial expression, until he felt a sturdy hand on his shoulder. 

"Must you pester the lives of others instead of running your failing business in peace, Anderson?" 

John rolled his eyes and steadied his breath from the forming annoyance. _Bloody wanker_. Anderson cleared his throat and leaned on his elbows on the counter, challenging the taller man. "And pray tell, how can you claim my business is failing?" 

Without pause, Sherlock was on him like a cat to a mouse, drilling into the poor clerk as the musician recited each aspect of ruin the little shop presented. From hidden mould in the corners of walls and display cases, to the ink splotch tucked away in the cuff of his rolled up sleeve, even to the fleck of dirt just under his fingernail. 

"S-sir! I was sorting the delivery of vegetables this morning! It were the carrots that contained some remnants of dirt from their harvest." 

But that still didn't stop him. The more he fought, the more John wished there was a hole that sank deep beneath the Earth to swallow him up. When Sherlock finished spouting insults and crushing the man's intelligence, he simply turned to the doctor with a thin smile. "Now, before Mr. Anderson rudely interrupted the reasons behind my journey with his appalling face-"

Anderson scoffed at the comment, eyes narrowed, and his face beet red with rage - all while glaring daggers at the insufferable musician. 

"- I was wondering if the good doctor would like to join me for lunch to discuss recent business plans." 

John sighed and sent an apologetic look to the clerk before facing the detective and raising a brow, "After a sprat like this? I guess I have little choice however, I do have a bag full of groceries." He raised the bag toward the other man, swaying it for emphasis. There was a pause before Sherlock grabbed it from him and headed toward the door, "It takes longer than a few hours for food such as this to rot, John. Several weeks, in fact."

Out the door the taller man went, long coat bellowing behind and John tipped his cap in departure before hastily following. 

~

"Wait a minute, I thought you said we were going for lunch."

Sherlock snuck a glance at the doctor, who was surprisingly keeping up pace, and sent him a cheeky grin. "In due time, John. But first there is something I wish to do." 

Stepping up to their destination, Sherlock held the door open for John. As John walked through his mouth dropped and he rounded on his companion. "What are we doing here?" 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock feigned a 'let down' pout before the bell chime above the door brought the attention of none other than...

"Mrs. Hudson! How wonderful to see you again on this fine day!" Sherlock pushed past John lightly and walked up to the counter to be greeted by the warm embrace of the kind, older woman. 

"Oh Sherlock, it's lovely to see you. I'm so sorry I missed you two gentleman this morning." She cooed, turning to John with an equally wide smile. "Good morning Dr. Watson!"

John smiled back with a tip of his cap, "Morning, Mrs. Hudson. How are you this hour?"

"Absolutely lovely now that you lot have shown up. I was hoping you would stop by again Sherlock, how long has it been since you came back here? Now with all that running around London looking for that wretched murderer."

"Just about a month."

"Well that is too long! I can only keep my hands off that room of yours for so long before I decide to dust that mess!" She clicked her tongue at him and turned back to John, "You too young man! That piano hasn't been touched in quite some time, poor girls going to rot." 

John chuckled and Sherlock spoke up, "Which is exactly why we've come, Mrs. Hudson. I would like to book out John's room for several hours." 

"'Scuse me?" John's eyes shot to other man, "You want to hear me play?" 

Sherlock frowned, hanging up his coat and turning to John, "I thought that was rather obvious." 

"Y-yes...well....yes..."

"Then what is the problem, doctor?" 

"Did Mycroft put you up to this?"

John could have sworn there was a spark that flicked off in Sherlock's brain, by the way his eyes lit up with minor irritation. "Nonsense, now do hurry up. No time like the present!" 

In defeat, John shook his head, hung up his garb, and headed to his room. Sherlock had already managed to remove the sheet covering the grand piano and was now working on the drapes. John sat down on the small wooden bench and lifted the cover, revealing recently polished white and black keys. He smiled to himself relishing in the small joy and warmth that grew in him.

 It was a little miracle that found him after returning back, a little stroke of luck in the dark - and looking over to the man that changed his life forever after just their first meeting, was enough for him. It was more than enough, far too much. John took a moment to take in the lean yet muscular figure, slowly bringing his eyes up to the milky pale skin of a neck - peeking through the collar of a white button up. He finally ventured to stare at the piercing eyes - that captured his whole body like a siren - along the sharp cheekbones, and then the sleeked back dark head of hair that fought to disobey the forced style and return to a mass of curls. John licked his lips, his attention brought back by the deep baritone voice piercing his senses.

 "John what is it that your staring at?" Sherlock grinned, knowing very well what the good doctor was indeed doing, but stepped over and joined him on the bench. "Now, what shall we play?" 

~

The two of them played most of the morning and afternoon away, each adoring the others  company until John cut them short, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock why are we doing this?"

"Well,  John, since I've always despised the concept of religion I find that radic-"

"No, Sherlock!" He chuckled, sitting up straight and turning to face his partner. "I mean why are we here?" 

"Why not?"

John gave him a knowing look and Sherlock was instantly defeated, blowing out an annoyed puff of air, "I was contacted by Mycroft." 

"Of course..." John sighed and removed himself from the bench, hobbling over to the window, looking out onto the London streets. 

Sherlock remained seated but turned toward him, "John, it's the best plan, if we can distract the guests long enough then it gives the killer an opportunity to strike. That way we can catch him in the act!"

"But why must it be me?! Why must I be the distraction! Why can't I help you?" John boiled with anger and he gripped the handle of his cane harder. Oh. "It's because I'm a cripple isn't it?!" He rounded on the other man, charging over and bunching the man's collar in his grip to hold him steady. "Just because I have trouble walking does not make me any less capable of a man, Mr. Holmes. I was a soldier while still being a doctor, I've _killed_ people." 

Sherlock was steady and surprisingly calm, yet he raised his hands in defeat in order to relax the situation. "John I never said that you are not capable I-"

"For too many years I've seen nothing but rot and decaying corpses - bullets pushed into the brains of soldiers I once called 'friend', never once did I back down. My leg might be scathed and useless to me, but my strength is not."

His grip tightened around the collar and Sherlock craned his neck slightly back in order to keep the fabric from jamming his airways. "John, c-calm down, please..."

"I am not _useless_ , I am not _weak_!" There was red before his eyes, clouding his mind and conscience. It took only a few seconds before the ragged intakes of breath and shallow gasps brought him back to reality. His legs shook violently and he released his hold, eyes going wide in realization.

"Oh god. Not again...what have I done..." John shuffled back, trying to distance himself in order to protect Sherlock from him. John lost his footing and crashed to the ground, dragging himself back with his hands.

The room was silent, other than the several small coughs that escaped the detectives mouth, as his body recovered from the shock. "Jesus Christ Sherlock I'm sorry..." John covered his face with his hands, scrubbing at it with his palms. "I could have killed you....god, I-I could've killed you...." 

He didn't even realize that Mrs. Hudson entered the room until there was a shattering of glass just by the doorway. 

"Goodness! What happened?!" Tea and broken glass scattered the hardwood floor at her feet and Sherlock quickly got up from the seat, heading over and bracing the poor woman by the shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" 

"Sherlock your neck! What is the meaning of all of this?!" She called over to the slumped over doctor, who dare moved an inch. "Dr. Watson!" 

"Leave him be, Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock pleaded and gently maneuvered them out into the hallway, "I will clean this up, don't you dare bother yourself with it." He spoke gently, examining her hands for any signs of cuts. "Now if you be so kind as to make another pot of tea and have it delivered just outside the door, that would be greatly appreciated." 

The woman went to reach for the purplish bruise that was starting to form just under his now scrunched and opened collar, but Sherlock grabbed hold of her wrist, "Please, Mrs. Hudson. That is all I ask." 

She nodded and silently walked down the hallway, leaving Sherlock to turn and take in the sight of the room behind. The tea was already seeping into the grooves of the wood - and taking a closer look - the broken china scattered farther than expected. He took no time whatsoever to slowly make his way to the small, shaking form on the floor. He gently placed a hand on his friends shoulder, but the doctor did not budge. "John. John. John, please!" 

John slowly lifted his head, strays of golden and greying hair wandering away from their forced place, now cast across his forehead. He blinked several times to ward off the tears blurring his vision before bringing his attention to the other man. The bruise now began to make itself known as its purple hue stood out against the pale flesh. John carefully raised his finger to brush the short path before letting his arm fall to the ground with a loud thump. "I hurt you again....I _keep_ hurting you!"  

"John, I am fine-"

"And you keep _forgiving_ me! How?!" 

"That's enough!" Sherlock yelled, causing the doctor to jump and his glazed eyes locking onto his own. "John, what I said earlier, I did not mean to upset you." The doctor made to open his mouth, but Sherlock blocked his speech, raising a finger to his lips, "You are not weak, nor are you ruined. You are a kind and resourceful man that I hold deep respect for! I know you did not mean to hurt me on any occasion - your mind is still wounded from war and your actions are _not_ your own. I care for you too much to put you in any danger, John. Which is why I agreed to Mycroft's suggestion as to you aiding in distraction while I locate our murderer. Please understand John, in no way did I wish to upset you!" 

John just stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He couldn't believe for one second that what he had done did not cause this man to leave, to run and never come back. But here he was, a true companion that would not stray away even when his mind was not right and tainted from war. "Sherlock, I've never meant to hurt you. You mean more to me than any living thing on this world! I hate myself for ever laying a finger on you...these bloody demons in my head! Its inexcusable! I wish....I just wish that I could be the man I once was. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully be him again....but that's the point..." tears trickled down his cheeks, gently landing on the cool floor, as his head fell forward in defeat, "That's the whole point. The man you thought I was.... _that's the man I want to be_...." 

Feeling a light pressure on his chin, John lifted his gaze to Sherlock's - taking in the hurt and saddened look gracing his lovers face. Not once more did he ever want to see hurt on the faces of those he loved knowing that he put it there. He wanted to change, wanted to be stronger, wanted to fight against the demons not just on his own, but knowing that there would be someone to support him through that long and difficult journey to get there. Staring deeper into the man's eyes, did John notice something else. Something he never thought he would ever see again... 

_Love._

"Well then....  _John Watson..."_ Sherlock whispered, delicately wiping away a stray hair from John's forehead."...let's get the hell on with it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is finally growing as a character and is now ready to go on his journey to becoming a BAMF.
> 
> I'm hoping that none of you hate him after this chapter for hurting Sherlock again. Don't worry, everything will turn out right! He knows what he's done is wrong and inexcusable but his actions are not his own, he's faced with demons that he is more than ready to fight, now that he's not alone! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and as always....
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	19. Live & Let Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!! Weeee

They practiced. Three days a week, John and Sherlock would head over to Mrs. Hudson's studio and just simply play. In the mornings, John would make breakfast, ham with eggs and beans - to which Sherlock would pick at, until yolk was spread across the plate and the toast was unrecognizable as a pile of crumbs. During the days that they both decided against going in yo brush up on John's skill, they would go out to venues. Every time John would sit in awe watching his gorgeous flatmate win over the ears and hearts of others, caressing the bow strings of his violin as he swayed to the music.  

The both of them started to become closer, most evenings just spent talking or stealing kisses by the fire, and Sherlock wouldn't dare push for any information on John's past. It was one thing John was grateful for, but at the same time he wanted Sherlock to know. They were lovers - of sorts - he decided, and both should know the worst of each other.

_One day_ , he thought, _one day they will really talk._

~

It was on an afternoon the week before the event, John was thumbing the edge of the morning paper when Sherlock burst from his bedroom door. "John!" He called, stomping over to the doctors red plush chair. His face was lit up like a Christmas tree and his curls sprang wildly from his head. 

John couldn't help but stop the grin forming on his face at the adorable sight. "What is it?"

Sherlock shoved a sheet of paper with scrawl right in front of the doctors nose and waved it around furiously. "Look John, look!" 

John snatched the sheet and held it out to view it properly and raised a brow, "What exactly am I looking at?" 

"The killer, John. I've found out our main killers initials!"

John caught the circled initials on the paper and narrowed his eyes. "SM," he read. "Sherlock that could be anyone...."

"OH! John you wonderful, amazing creature that's it!" Sherlock bounded to the telephone and snatched it up, yelling over the line at the operator to 'hurry up' and 'it's Mycroft Holmes, how difficult could finding him be - he's the bloody government.' 

John, on the other hand remained seated with a dumb look plastered on his face. _What did I say?_

~

Twenty minutes passed before both Mycroft and Lestrade walked through the door. "'Bout time you two showed up." Sherlock sneered, pacing the living room. 

"Sorry mate, got held up at the office," 

Sherlock's ears perked up and glanced at the inspector. "Case?" 

"It's a two."

"Ugh, never mind then." 

Mycroft had made his way over to Sherlock's leather chair and took a seat, crossing his legs, and turned to John with a tight smile. "And how are you, Captain?" 

Jon settled his paper down on the table beside, "Quite well, now that you two are here and can help deal with the over-excited child in the room." He grinned. The musician, who now settled on the sofa, glared daggers in his direction. 

"So I heard you found new information in regards to the 'Headless Heroes' case?"

"What did you call it?" Sherlock questioned.

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John with a raised brow, "Isn't that what you named it, John?" 

Sherlock caught on and sent another face the doctors way, causing John's Adam's Apple to bob in discomfort. "It's quite catchy." He squeaked, folding his hands together in resignation. 

"The ' _Headless Heroes_ '" Sherlock parroted, the 's' emphasized. 

Acting as a bloody saviour in disguise of the devil, Mycroft removed a sheet of paper from his jacket and waved it at Sherlock with impatience. "As you requested, brother mine. The list of patrons attending the banquet." 

Sherlock marched over, snatched the parchment from the narrow fingers and scanned over it furiously. John looked on and twiddled his thumbs with budding tension spreading through his stomach. 

"Pen!" Sherlock shouted, outreaching his hand toward John. Greg went to make a move toward their table but Sherlock sent him a scowl, causing him to freeze on the spot. "I said, _Pen_." 

John took that as an indication to get up from his seat and limped to the table, reaching for a pen with a sigh, and throwing it over to _his lordship_. It wasn't until he sauntered back to his seat before noticing the room was eerily quiet. John dared to take a peek around but lost to his curiosity; it took him a moment to realize that Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade were all staring at him with widened eyes. "What?" 

Sherlock blinked several times, mouth slightly opened and then closed. 

Open.

Closed.

"John," Mycroft spoke up first, "Is this the first official start of your recovery?" 

John looked to him in puzzlement then turned to the two other gentlemen - who seemed to have a problem talking for some reason. Lestrade cleared his throat and kept his eyes fixed on something that appeared to be behind John. John turned his head and spotted his cane resting neatly against his armchair. His eyes then travelled down to his feet, where he was leaning on one foot - pressure resting on his good leg but standing on two feet all the same. 

Taking a deep breath and risking a glance at his flatmate, John noticed the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. "Well, it would appear so."

Lestrade didn't hesitate to march over and shake his friends hand profusely. "Congratulations, mate. This is excellent!" 

The doctor chuckled and bowed his head in thanks, "Ta, but this isn't just my achievement, let's get back to the case at hand." 

The three men nodded in agreement with kind smiles before turning back to the task. Sherlock, of course had already started scribbling on a separate sheet of paper.

Some time went by, and Mrs. Hudson also popped her head in the door presenting a lovely pot of tea and several stacks of biscuits. Mycroft had already started reaching for two, keeping up his prim and proper facade, as he silently nibbled on one. John carefully made his way to Sherlock, placing a hand selectively on his shoulder for balance - and avoiding the questioning glance that Lestrade gave. 

John always tried to avoid scandal, especially living full time with another man. When away from home, he would treat their relationship as that of a very old friend; pats to the back and shoulders, at least two feet apart when talking, and most importantly, he would try - although difficult - to avoid staring at that perfect Cupid's bow and welcoming lips. It worked for the most part, he thought, but something in the back of his mind always pestered him whenever Mycroft would catch them holding eye contact for longer than necessary. It was as if he knew, but never spoke a world. 

John leaned over with just enough distance to narrow in on the one name that was outlined and circles repeatedly. _Sebastian Moran._  

"There's our 'M'." Sherlock hummed, a smug grin finding itself on his face. 

Lestrade walked over, hands in pockets and grabbing a notebook and a pen, "Sebastian Moran, never heard of him. I'll head over to the yard and check some of the filing cabinets - see if I can pull anything up." 

Mycroft got up from his seat, returning his cup and saucer to the tray and re-adjusted his suit. "And I will sort out some things for next week. When I have everything prepared I will give you a call, brother mine." 

"Yes very well, you may both leave now." Sherlock snapped. John looked over and could have sworn that the detective was pulsing with excitement. His eyes were glistening and his face held an expression as if he was ready to explode. 

The two men bid their farewells, tipped their hats, and carried out their thanks to Mrs. Hudson for the tea. When the flat door shut and the footsteps on the steps came to an end, Sherlock jumped up from his seat and crowded John into the leather loveseat. Staring into the abyss of colour that were his eyes, they held a hunger that made John's stomach turn and pupils dilate with want. 

"Sh'lock-" he moaned, smooth and plush lips tracing down his neck to the elevated pulse point, beating with desire. Once they found the marked target, Sherlock sucked the spot lightly and ran a hand down the doctors chest, to the tent in his trousers. John couldn't help but buck up a bit to gain much wanted pressure from the musicians hand. 

"Not here.." Sherlock breathed, gently tracing his nose up John's neck - sending goose numbs along his trail - to capture his lips into a slow but heated kiss. 

John's mind blanked completely when they broke apart and let out a whimper from the loss of contact. It took a moment before he realized that he was now being dragged - carefully - to the man's bedroom, door being firmly shut behind, and backed onto the bed.

"The game.." Sherlock whispered, voice husky and warm against his mouth. "..is on.."  

~

Mrs. Hudson had never mentioned any noises from the flat upstairs, nor did she ever mention the change in moods of her two musicians upstairs when she brought up some crumpets the next morning. Life was too short to go on alone, and if they found happiness, meaning and a little healing within each others company, so be it. 

"Live and let live, that's my motto." She would say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read the story so far! 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated <3


	20. Gunfire & Small Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter. Enjoy!!
> 
> Disclaimer: Violence at beginning & some very light smut at the end of this chapter (Added tags).

_The pressure on his neck released and John heaved much needed breaths - coughing and gaging from the fabric in his mouth. He was so close to blacking out and suffocating but the strong hands released him._

_The gunfire outside was getting closer and the air being drawn from the two captors lungs was anything but calm and collective. They were growing impatient...and Sholto was still not giving them any answers._  

_What could be so important?_

_"Promise me you won't hurt him!"_

_There was an airy hum that gave a response and then the sound of heavy boots, drawing back up to him. John took a shaky breath, cursing the the blindfold around his eyes that sought to block and distort everything - except for the figures and a very distant candle light._

_"I said promise me, damn it!" A little chuckle arose from the other one and the man in front placed something on John's thigh._

_Then the broken, singsong voice replied in the terrible German accent, "Alright, now just tell me where it is."_

_"It's- it's not here...."_

_Silence. John guessed some form of agitation was probably welded to that face. The air was heavy with death._

_"Great job, genius, figured that out. Now where is it...." there was the gritting of teeth and the man in front of John ground the object deeper into his leg. John tried to talk, to communicate and stop this mess, but the gag restricted his tongue and only several sloppy groans were made instead._

_"See, James? Your making this hard on him. Already made it hard on that dead friend of yours. Poor thing, arteries are such fickle things. Now where is-"_

_Sholto let out an audible grunt and pulled at his restraints, the leather sounded as if biting into skin. "I can't!"_

_"Pity."_

_There was a loud bang followed by searing pain. The pain was numbing, but at the same time scorching like fire. It pretty much aided the bullet wound in his shoulder that was probably near infection. It wrapped its deathly coil around John's insides and he felt a million miles away from the battlefield._

_It was odd when men would say that their lives flashed before their eyes, when the kiss of death came to take them away. John never really was one to believe it until it happened. And it did._ _Harry, his father and mother all around the dinner table. Bottles of liquor sprawled across the floor of the hallway as he made his way to his bedroom. The rare comments of pride his drunk father would make to his mates at the distillery, on how his son was going to be a medical man._

_All of these thoughts, good and bad, flooded his mind and he didn't even hear the cruel, obscene and deep laughter erupting from his shooter._

_It was times like these when John wished he wasn't a bachelor, but at the same time was grateful for it. It would have been nice to know that back home, there would be someone crying for him. Someone who loved him dearly and would one day hope to wed. But that was selfish and was glad the other side remained. Now he could die alone - among the rats and the worms, decomposing into the Earth that was this bloody hellhole._

_Reality hit him._

_It hit about the same time an explosion was heard at the door, and the ringing in his ears started. There was another gunshot but this time he didn't feel it. Instead there were hands at the ties to his back, ripping off the blindfold and cutting the gag at his mouth. His body was numb. Empty. Soldiers were scattered about the room but none he didn't recognize. Bill Murray, his one mate he shared watch with at times, was wrapping something tight against his leg wound. Another man, John had heard about but knew very little, was Carl_ _\- they always used to call him Merch - was fussing over the dead body of the one young man John was in the middle of saving before this mess._

_There were two other soldiers moving about and John's head lolled to the side, too weak to even support it, and then he saw him. James Sholto. Major James Sholto. His face was unrecognizable. There wasn't really even a face left; just bits of flesh and blood stuck to either pieces of skin or littering the ground around the blood spray._

_He could have cried._

_Could have really cried._

_But no tears came. Instead, the growl of loss, pain, hardship and emotion shook his body and passed his bloodied and chapped lips._

_It was animalistic._

_It was raw._

_It was real._

_So real that it continued to shake his body in convulsions of rage that he never knew built up. Staring at the man he loved - had loved - but never got to say it, nor be able to proclaim it to the world. It was the last line tying himself to their ungodly reality._

_Hurried hands laid him down onto a stretcher, he guessed, and the darkness behind closed lids lulled him to an unforeseeable future._

~ 

"Now, tomorrow we shall practise our duet." 

"But Sherlock, you said that I would be up there alone. Why must we even bother practising for something no one will hear?" 

The violinist shushed him by the pluck of a string and turned on his heel to face his stand once again. "From the beginning." 

Alone, in the confines of their usual shared room in the studio, the two men continued to practise for the day that loomed over their heads. Of course, John was well prepared in performing the song of choice, but that wasn't the cause of the growing uncomfortable feeling that plagued his stomach. It was the thought of others.

"Stop." John said, sprawling his fingers along several keys to create a disturbed sound. 

The violin cord hitched before the black curls swayed to face him. "What?"

"Sherlock, this practise is all good and well, but we are missing the most important problem!"

"Which is?"

John's head dipped and his hands fiddled with the pocket watch in his vest. "I....I can't.." he took a deep breath, "I can't play in front of others, Sherlock....I just can't..." 

"John, that is not even near a problem." 

"Yes it-"

"No. It isn't. See, you care so much about what others think, that you fail to acknowledge your own skill." Sherlock placed his instrument down and walked up behind John, who remained seated at the piano. He set his hands on the other man's shoulders and bent down, so that his breath lightly tickled the side of John's ear. "You play beautifully, John. Don't ever think otherwise."

A playful grin swept across his face, and John turned in his seat to face the gorgeous man in front. "I play beautifully, eh? Well Mr. Holmes, I must say that you yourself could charm the very hearts of women."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, "John, why would I ever wish to win over and please the fair sex? I hold them great respect, but they are not my area of choosing, as you know."

"Oh do I?" John teased.

Sherlock huffed an annoyed sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. "You test my temper, doctor." 

"Might I test something else...?" John reached for the taller man's upper arms to grip, as he pulled himself up from his seat and shifted his weight on his good leg. Once properly situated, John's hand snaked up the other man's neck and into the dark and soft curls at the back of his head. He gently tugged at them, pulling Sherlock down to capture those perfect lips into a heated kiss. 

Sherlock broke off first, chest heaving and licking his lips in one broad swipe. His eyes were blown wide, much to how John imagined his eyes were at this very moment. "And what information have you gained from your test, doctor?" Sherlock asked, voice husky and rough with desire. 

"I haven't finished collecting just yet.." John plopped down on the seat behind him once again and went to tug at the front of Sherlock's trousers, pulling him closer so that the man was now situated on his lap, straddling his hips. John felt the warm and pleasurable pressure against his groin, as Sherlock's hips rocked forward with a cheeky grin.

He groaned at the contact and went straight for the man's long pale neck, peppering it with kisses and sucking at the pulse point. Sherlock was more than willing to offer up more, craning his neck back as to allow more access. John was more than willing to oblige.  

They hungrily pulled at each other's clothing until they were both naked to the waist and John's hands trailed down the soft plane of skin, to the needy bulges between them. Sherlock moaned at the contact as John brushed his hand over him to work on the zip of his trousers. "Shhhh, my love." John whispered, bringing his lips back to the gaping mouth, to silence him. 

It didn't even occur to John that the little endearment had slipped out. He did notice however, that there was a slight tension in the other man for a split second, before it was gone and filled instead with pure desire. 

John went back to work at he other man's neck once again, as he fumbled with his hands to release his lover from the confines of his pants. Once he made contact with the heated flesh, Sherlock arched up and let out another moan. John couldn't take the sounds, each one headed straight to his groin. 

"God...Sherlock....the noises you make.. " he groaned, now working on his own trousers. 

Sherlock wriggled at the loss of contact and once John was released, he pulled Sherlock closer so that their chests were flush and their members between them. Electricity surged at the contact and they both let out pleasurable sounds. 

It was a very good thing that that was the day when Mrs. Hudson had closed the shop to go and visit her sister. 

_Thank God for small miracles_ , John thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <3


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